


Lokasenna

by R_Cookie



Series: Lokasenna AU [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Cookie/pseuds/R_Cookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some mornings, Tony wakes up and he cannot believe Loki’s right there. </p><p>And then he remembers, grudgingly, that he has, maybe, on some stupid level, those sons of bitches to thank for the way things turned out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. The Avengers happened. And I decided to roll with it once the muse got all psyched over the film. This is the product. I thought it might be light and hopefully funny but when have things ever turned out right? So, instead, you get this, which is really kind of dark. But have at it. 
> 
> I must apologise for the extensive abuse of artistic liberties and imagination. I've taken bits and bobs of the Marvel universe, twisted it for the story and I hope nobody will squawk. (But seriously, there are SO many arcs and AUs in the comics I get confused.)
> 
> Happy reading.

_[Now]_

Some mornings, Tony wakes up and it’s just one of _those_ days.

No, not the terrible, I-woke-up-on-the-wrong-side-gimme-a-bottle- _now_ kind of a day.

No, he means for it as one of those sickening, cloyingly _perfect_ sort of a day that has him wondering if it’s real. Where he doesn’t wake up with his head pounding away like it’d taken a hit from Mjölnir; where he isn’t awoken by a sardonic British voice that recites the weather report loudly, caring not a whit for whether the morning call comes as a shock that throws Tony off the bed – he is, however, on occasion, more amiable to a _different_ voice that does sound ever so British. (Though if it were up to him, he’d much prefer less groggy murmurs and more body heat curling snug around him. Warm and familiar. _Not_ that you’d ever hear him attest to this.)

Tony feels the comfortable warmth of sunlight across his face, streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows, and his eyes twitch a little. Then, there’s a whisper of a touch as long, elegant fingers ghost his side, tracing his ribs, his bicep, meandering to his jawbone. He feels the faintest of kisses against the nape of his neck, and then nothing. The blanket shifts as the body next to him backs away.

Tony finally opens his eyes and turns over, getting in a good stretch as he goes because he can multi-task like that. On the pillow beside him, there’s black, black hair that shimmers auburn in the sun, splayed in a botched halo about the pale face of sharp lines and aquiline features. Dark lashes are pressed stark against the porcelain skin and those eyes he knows to be an ever-changing storm of green and silver twitch beneath closed lids. It is a poor attempt at feigning sleep and they both know it, and it’s enough to fill Tony with a worrying, hopeless sort of affection.  

Some mornings, Tony wakes up and he cannot believe _Loki’s_ right there.

And then he remembers, grudgingly, that he has, maybe, on some stupid level, those sons of bitches to thank for the way things turned out. And yeah, it does make his mood –

(Tony finds himself staring into brilliant celadon eyes, distracted by the deliciously wicked smile that curls Loki’s lips.)

No.

No, everything’s still pretty much perfect.

 

**–**

 

 _[Before]_

It begins with a startled gasp in the midst of battle – not something terribly uncommon by far, gasps are in fact, rather terribly easy to incite. A well-placed punch to the gut, an unfortunate skid on black ice (Clint will rail like a little boy against that being true), a perfectly executed kick to the back, the Hulk falling onto you…

But it begins with a gasp that interrupts the God of Mischief whilst he’s in the middle of spellcasting, an interruption that leaves him with barely enough time to dart puzzled glances at seemingly random places before he vanishes in front of the Avengers.

Suffice to say, Thor hadn’t been all that pleased. Nor the Hulk, for that matter. It just wasn’t acceptable by their battle standards and etiquette to disappear in the middle of a fight. In Fury’s words however, “I don’t give a fuck if you two didn’t manage to finish your wannabe-pro-wrestling _properly_ with a medal and applause and fuck. Loki’s gone – yes, Cap, I know it’s only _for now_ , thank you very much for pointing that out – and the city’s still standing and that’s all I care about right now. Why? You wanna know _why,_ Agent Barton? Because I can see from your face that you wanna know _why_. I’ll tell you _why_. Because I don’t see any of you having to deal with the motherfucking _council_ about property damage and fucking repair costs!”

And that had been that.

Time just passed after the little incident, a month, then two, then six. Six months without so much as a peep from Loki or his sometime-minions. If Tony weren’t as free a man as he was – paperwork notwithstanding – he might have been content with leaving the proverbial gift horse’s damned mouth alone like the rest of the team seemed fine with doing, praising the high heavens like he knew Fury secretly did that there was one less supervillain to deal with. As it were, Tony mulls over the absence of the Trickster (not that he misses the bastard – the _hell_?) and mourns the decline in witty banter in his sad, scotch-filled life.

It’s a relief, he supposes, to find out that he isn’t the only one to take particular notice or interest in Loki. Even if the other person is Thor, Loki’s _brother_ , who therefore has a legitimate right to be concerned over the god, but whatever. Wouldn’t want the gang to think I was _pining_ , is what Tony explains to himself one day, or maybe his reflection. (The details of that night are a little fuzzy with the number of shot glasses.)

Except, the conversation that pops up between Thor and himself isn’t quite what he has had in mind.

He’s in the kitchen, slumped over the countertop, tracing idle fingers around the rim of his mug, yes, mug of hot cocoa because Pepper’s one scary woman and she’s basically strong-armed him into this detoxification schmuck. Tony hears the heavy gait of the Norse god, recognizes it inevitably, as it draws closer to the same counter he’s draped over.

“It’s not alcohol. It’s a cold winter night, someone messed with the damned thermostat – ”

“It wasn’t _me_ , Sir,” JARVIS chimes in helpfully.

“ – It was _so_ you. Don’t interrupt – and I’m having hot cocoa. See?” Tony dutifully tilts the half filled mug towards the blonde who’s pulled out a stool beside him. “Not even a drop of brandy.”

“I wasn’t going to speak of your beverage choice, Tony Stark,” Thor says quietly. And that is what catches Tony’s attention. ‘Quiet’ is and has _never_ been known to appear in the same sentence as ‘Thor’, save for when shit is on the verge of hitting the ceiling and the realization sets Tony on edge.

“Well, what’s up, big man?” he says, trying for nonchalant.

“I fear my brother’s gone missing.”

Tony blinks.

“Missing? Loki not popping up on our radar for a couple of months doesn’t mean he’s missing, bub. It’s happened before,” Tony remarks, taking a tentative sip of his drink.

“Not without a single sighting or word. Not for this many months,” Thor says with a frown. Tony doesn’t like that look, it’s a look the man’s always gotten right before smashing something. Tony inches fractionally away in his seat.

“Really? Not even back home? The way you speak of him sometimes, it’s like he’s been known to just up and leave on some spontaneous Asgardian roadtrip… thing. When you two were still speaking, anyway.” He winces a little at his words. That hadn’t come out as tactful as he might have hoped for.

Thor’s expression turns stony.

“You are not wrong. He has gone unheard from for many, many months on end in our youth. That is the truth. But he has never before missed a meeting with Mother.”

Tony raises a brow. “Meeting? How – ”

“Every month, Mother just informed me, they meet in their minds, dreams. It keeps her from worrying. It is unjust that I do not share their telepathy.”

“Just? What do you mean ‘just’?” Growing trepidation aside, Tony thinks it’s kinda sweet that Loki’s a momma’s boy. Not so much surprising, though, what with the major daddy issues. 

“I was sleeping and Mother spoke to me in my dreams.”

“I thought you said you can’t do the whole telepathic high tea – ”

“ _I_ cannot myself reach out to anyone, but _Mother_ can. But that is not the point, my friend. She told me that Loki has not sought her all these months.”

“Maybe he’s just sulking and doesn’t _want_ to talk to your mother?” Tony suggests warily.

“No. No, Loki would never ignore Mother like that. He loves Mother too much to hurt her feelings so pettily,” Thor says, looking decidedly like a kicked puppy. “And Mother tried to reach him instead, but could not. She says it was as if Loki’s mind was too scattered for her to centre on long enough to form a connection.”

Now, _that_ , was interesting.

“So…,” Tony drawls into his cocoa. “What’re you gonna do?”

“I… do not yet know,” Thor sighs heavily. He looks so dejected with the slumped shoulders and honest-to-god pout that Tony is compelled to offer what awkward comfort he can with a hesitant pat to the blonde’s back.

“Cheer up, big man. He’ll show eventually. People like him, they can’t tear themselves away from troublemaking that much longer.” Tony’s speaking from experience, but Thor really doesn’t need to know that.

“Trust me.”

 

**–**

But another month flies by without a sign of the Trickster and things do _not_ get better. In fact, it goes in the distinct _opposite_ of better as the Avengers watch Thor get increasingly antsy, which translates into missions becoming stress-relief sessions where every single one of their enemies look like punch bags to the thunder god.

As a testament to the insane, clusterfuck odds that enshrouds life as an Avenger, it all culminates in a personal visit from the freaking _Queen_ of Asgard one morning.

“Sir, you have a visitor. All Avengers have been ordered to assemble. In the kitchen.”

“What the hell, Jarvis – What’s the fucking time?” Tony whines into his pillow, lazy and dazed.

“It is just after four in the morning, Sir.”

“Son of a bitch,” Tony swears viciously. “Did you say ‘kitchen’? Who the fuck’s the fucking visitor that we meet in the _kitchen_?” 

“Queen Frigga, Sir.” 

Frigga. Frigga. Tony trundles through the disorganized crap in his head to place a face to the strange name. 

“Does, erm, Fury know about this visitor?” Tony asks absently, still groggy and preoccupied with the arduous task of sifting through the astounding amount of useless trivia that fills his head.

“No, Sir. Thor informed me a day ago that he should prefer if this was kept to the team alone.” 

“Right, right – ” 

Tony blinks rapidly. Because, oh, fuck, Thor and Asgard and Loki supposedly missing and the name ‘Frigga’ seems really familiar now. Holy shit. The Queen. 

Tony throws himself off the bed and grapples for a pair of sweatpants and his well-worn hoodie, and he briefly considers if it’s entirely appropriate to dress like that before royalty. But he’ll be seriously late otherwise, and Thor’s a prince and he’s seen Tony in even sloppier states of dress so he figures in for a penny, etc. – 

“Wait a sec. And you just _thought_ it was a good idea to keep such an instruction from _me_? I did not program you like that, Jarvis!” He almost yells with a glower at the ceiling. 

“It must have slipped my mind, Sir.” 

“Slipped your mind. Sure, sure. You and I are having _words_ later.” 

Tony’s still trying to flatten his hair when he enters the dimly lit kitchen. He spots Clint perched on a stool by the countertop, his hair sticking in a million directions like he’s just gone six rounds with his stuffed hawk and lost (it’d been a gift from Natasha and Clint would rather suck it up and keep it than incur her wrath), wilting where he sits. Steve, being the well-raised boy he is, is already dressed in trousers and a plaid shirt, taking the couch opposite a regally poised lady with stunning blond hair the same shade as Thor’s. Beside her son, she’s seated with eyes cast downwards at clasped hands, wrapped in an inconspicuous navy blue cloak with intricately woven detailing along the hems. 

At Tony’s footsteps, the Queen raises her head and even though Tony’s still not entirely sure about the big hoo-ha with the royal family, something to do with Loki being adopted, he’s met with a pair of familiar green eyes. 

“Er.” 

“Tony Stark. Mother, this is the man of iron – ” 

Frigga makes to rise from her seat, elegant hand outstretched, but Tony meets her half-way. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard much about you from my younger son. I must apologize for calling on all of you at this hour. I’m afraid I wasn’t too certain about Midgardian time.” The team just gives a polite shaking of heads even if they _do_ mind because sleep deprivation is not a funny thing – but self-preservation is an important trait and nobody offends the royal family, particularly one associated with a penchant for warmongering. 

Natasha gives Tony the _look_ from the corner of her eye, her wordless _‘Really. Loki’s been gossiping about **you**_ **?** _What did you **do** , Stark?_’ He ignores her in favor of plopping himself onto the available space next to Steve. 

“Ma’am, your son’s told us about your concerns but we still don’t see any need to – ” 

“Captain, I know that Loki has regrettably made an enemy of himself and I understand that you would scarcely feel the need to come to his rescue but – ” 

“Ma’am,” Steve barrels on, as respectfully as one can in interrupting. “That was not what I was going to say.” 

“No?” Frigga remarks, leaning back a little. 

“No, ma’am. I was going to ask what has changed to make you _certain_ this time that something’s happened to Loki. Why the personal visit?” Steve says in his best commander voice. 

Frigga worries her lower lip, an act Tony never would have thought he’d see a woman as dignified as the Queen do. The tension in the room spikes. 

“Fenrir came to me,” she says quietly. 

Fenrir. It sounds like that werewolf in those wizard books for children that Natasha is secretly fond of – not that Tony reads them… he just googled the story, that’s all. But Tony digresses. He takes in the look of disbelief on Thor’s face and scrambles to decide if the disbelief’s good or bad. When it comes to Loki, though, Tony likes to prepare for the worst. 

“Who or _what_ is Fenrir?” Clint pipes up, looking marginally more alert. 

“He is Loki’s son, Fenrisúlfr. The Great Wolf,” Thor says weakly. 

“The _fuck_? – _ow!_ ” – Natasha appears behind him, slapping him hard on the upside of his head. Fucking ninja. – “Sorry, ma’am. But seriously? Loki’s a _dad_?” Frigga glances at Clint with a critical eye. 

“Well, if the lore’s true, which in this case I guess it is, Loki’s supposed to have three children with the a jötunn called Angrboða. And Fenrir’s one of them,” Bruce says and it makes Tony jump in his seat. 

“Where’d you come from, Doc? Didn’t even see you there – oh, right, in that little corner again.” Tony can see the man purse his lips, just one inch away from rolling his eyes. 

“Your _lore_ has twisted and embellished the truth with time,” Thor explains, frowning. “They speak of things that have never come to pass in Asgard.” 

“ _Back_ to the point,” Steve interjects again over the different voices. “What’s the deal with Fenrir?” 

Frigga looks right into Steve’s eyes and maybe it’s just Tony’s imagination, but he could swear her green irises were swirling. “He is Loki’s son and therefore possesses the strongest of bonds with him. Fenrir has been the only one able to be in contact with Loki. And he came to me in a dream, telling me what has befallen my son.” 

“He speaks now, Mother? I long thought him forgotten the ability after all these millennia,” Thor says. 

Tony decides that Asgardians have already achieved for themselves a level of eccentricity that he can never hope to come close to understanding, so he says with his hands, “I’m sorry, what? A talking wolf?” 

“Fenrir has not spoken since he was taken away all those years ago, and it has saddened my brother so. But this is good news, mother – ” 

“No, Thor. He still does not speak. Fenrir showed me images that Loki has used to communicate with him. A final series before not even Fenrir could touch his mind,” Frigga says softly, covering Thor’s hand with her own. 

“What’d you see?” Tony asks immediately. His hands are refusing to stay still, kneading his knuckles and tracing old calluses. 

“A room. A prison. With faded lights that cast a rusty glow over his bound body. There are… a great many number of tubes, long and coiled like rope, attached to his arms and neck. And suspended above him… there drips a liquid into his eyes that makes him scream,” Frigga recites, eyes dilated and staring into an unfathomable distance. 

There’s an awkward silence that follows. 

“Er. If you ignore the lack of a snake and entrails, that sounds a lot like what Loki was supposed to endure until the onset of Ragnarok if you follow Norse mythology,” Bruce finally adds, his voice overly loud in the quiet. 

“Entrails? Aren’t people creative,” Clint murmurs. 

“Of his other son – Narfi.” 

“That is a lie,” Thor growls. “Loki has but sired three children, and no others.” 

Bruce raises his hands in placation. 

“Look, if you ask me, let’s just say we stick to the Doc’s theory and there’s some sort of sick, Norse buff who’s decided to … re-enact the stories. Then, what?” Tony says, scooting to the edge of his cushion. The damn mental imagery that’s running through his head is doing nothing for his state of mind. 

“If it is true, then we track ‘em down, get rid of the creepy mofo, then nab Loki out of there,” Clint declares as if it were the most obvious course of action. Ever. 

“Loki’s the God of Mischief, Hawk. He’s not going to go walking into a trap. So we have to assume he was summoned or something, and for someone to be able to do that… well, we gotta be ready. We can’t underestimate the target.” Tony maybe more than loves Steve a little bit because he can always count on the guy to be all cool and calm and collected when Tony’s flipping the fuck out inside. Call it post-traumatic stress disorder or whatever, but anything torture-related is just a neon-lit trigger for him and he doesn’t need a total meltdown right now. He wouldn’t be able to live it down. 

“How do we track him down?” Natasha’s voice cuts sharply into his thoughts. Her eyes are narrowed and she’s been _absorbing_ every bit of information like she does with any info pack or battle tactic, absorbing and mapping out every single link in her mind. She may be a soldier these days, but she’s still a genetically enhanced world-class assassin. 

“I can think of only one way,” Frigga says. 

“Aye, that we release Fenrir, mother?” 

“Yes.” 

Thor considers her with wary eyes. “Father would not have it,” he says. 

“I shall speak to him and I shall convince him. There is no other way.” 

“I know father. He would as easily leave Loki to this madness as punishment for disgracing the family. Love as he may my brother, the both of us know I speak the truth.” 

Judging by the look of restrained horror on Steve’s face and the way Bruce was attempting some sort of meditative exercise, Tony isn’t the only one to think that the Allfather’s perhaps missing a few screws. And the whole Rumpelstiltskin shenanigan with Loki… Tony’s beginning to find it hard not to feel for the guy. 

“Captain, will we have the co-operation of the Avengers?” Frigga asks urgently, one hand staying Thor’s protests. “None of this will succeed without your team.” 

“I…– ” Steve stutters, looking helplessly at each Avenger with a silent plea for help. It’s probably gnawing at his conscience that he’s going to have to lie. “I guess you will, ma’am. But I cannot guarantee that Director Fury will not catch wind of this. He… erm, he has a way of finding out stuff nobody wants found.” 

Frigga suddenly _beams_ like fucking fairy lights on a Christmas tree and claps her hands together. The sharp sound makes Tony wince. “That will more than suffice. We shall cross that bridge when it comes.” Steve takes that comment and doesn’t bother covering up his expression that begs that by ‘we’, the Queen means ‘she’ and she alone. The Lord knows that Steve’s something of a rightfully God-fearing man, but Fury is a close second. 

“Thor and I shall excuse ourselves and return to Asgard where I shall speak to the Allfather and release Fenrir,” Frigga announces, getting to her feet. 

“I will return and we’ll then seek out my brother.” 

Decisions made, there’s a flurry of activity that leaves the Avengers eyeballing the sudden commands and bright flash of light as something called the Bifrost is activated by some invisible dude (Tony just assumes it’s a dude. Unless it’s an unfortunate lady named Heimdall, in which case, Tony wouldn’t mind meeting her because chances are she’ll have to overcompensate for such a name with a gigantic rack or somesuch.) 

In the aftermath of what felt like a concentrated tidal wave of _air_ , goddamn Asgardian teleportation mojo, the team stands around the two couches awkwardly. 

“So… I have a question,” Tony says, because for reasons nobody has been able to uncover, he just _cannot_ shut up sometimes. “They kept saying they had Fenrir trapped or locked away somewhere. What’s all that about?” 

Bruce lets himself fall onto a seat with an impressive huff, massaging his nose bridge impatiently. “Well, according to the stories, Fenrir was bound by an unbreakable chain and left in isolation on an island called Lyngvi, anchored to the earth by a large slab of stone because the gods feared his overwhelming power would grow out of control. He’s said to remain there until the time of Ragnarok when he breaks free and kills the Allfather before getting slain himself by another of Odin’s sons.” 

There’s that pregnant pause again. But, honestly, what was one supposed to say to something like that? 

“Awesome,” Clint grumbles into the countertop. 

Tony supposes there’s that.

 

**–**

 

If there is anything he’s learnt from being a part of this merry ragtag band of crazy people, it’s to purge oneself of whatever it is that helps register surprise. He’s seen a cyborg-alien invasion, a flying cloaked guy who took The Man in the Iron Mask way too seriously, a red-faced (all the puns intended) walking dead thing from Cap’s past, a guy who’s got the whole Rob Zombie look going for him and who proclaims himself Mandarin – Iron Man’s archenemy (Pfffft) – and a whole list of other weird little shits. 

But even with that much exposure, Tony’s _not_ ready for the sight of _him_ growling and snarling in the damn kitchen (again!). There’s a fucking mammoth of a wolf, with a thick, ruffled pelt of midnight black fur crouched in the middle of the room with his hackles raised and nobody forgets that the thing’s got a name. Fenrir. Fenrir the fucking wolf who’s got at least several inches or so on _Thor_. 

“We all here?” Steve calls out, worry tingeing the edge of his voice. There’s no reply, but they’re all assembled in a circle around the beast, a good few feet away from it. Thor’s the only mad man who’s taken to standing right beside Loki’s _son_. With one large hand, the Norse god sinks his palm into the generous coat of fur and ruffles it good-naturedly. 

It’s only the lingering scent of Loki clinging to Thor from the many years that they’ve been brothers that spares his life. Tony watches the wolf’s nose twitch with morbid fascination before Fenrir finally calms down, ears expressive and instinctual as they flatten themselves. The wolf sinks to the floor in a tired slump, whining and whimpering pitifully. 

“What did your father say, Thor?” 

The smile that previously occupies the god’s face slides off instantly. “He was as I’d expected. Mother did her best but Fenrir must return to the island once my brother is well. He will then have to make a choice.” 

“Regarding what?” Steve asks. 

“That I cannot say. It is only for Loki to know,” Thor answers firmly. 

“Thor, if this matter has any bearing on the Avengers or _earth_ in general – ” 

“I can assure you, Captain, that it does not. Please, question me no further on this. We are already wasting time.” 

Steve does back down but not without slapping on his unhappy bitchface. Thor smoothes the tangled fur of Fenrir’s scruff absently as he explains that Fenrir will be able to pick up Loki’s scent now that he is here on Midgard. And although traces of Loki’s magic has turned meager, it is sufficient for the wolf’s over enhanced senses because despite his appearance, Fenrir _is_ still a god. 

Tony eyes the massive wolf with warped curiosity and contemplates how a game of fetch would ever pan out. He could suit up and hurl a lamppost like an Amazonian and watch the wolf barrel through the streets, tongue lolling by the side of his impressive jowls, dangerous and adorable like a deranged Lassie. Yeah, that’d be tons of fun.

 

**–**

 

So, as far as missions go, Operation Save the Reindeer – as Tony calls it in his head since Cap shot it down as the official name **–** proceeds with suspicious ease. Admittedly, it was something of a novelty to put a tracker on a gigantic wolf that’d bitten off a god’s _arm_ in its younger days, then watch a creature that large just vanish into thin air before appearing as a red, beeping dot hopping all over a world map. 

Fenrir’s in all fifty states of America, Fenrir’s popping in and out of eastern Europe like a pinball, Fenrir’s in freaking Antarctica… Fenrir’s stalled at Norway. 

“Tony?” 

“Yep, already on it.” He taps his tiny, waif-like phone and drags the GPS onto the large screen displaying the map. “Jarvis, I want thermal scans on that warehouse.” 

The red dot is magnified and identified as Bergen, Norway. On the outskirts close to the snow covered mountains, the Avengers can make out the darkened blur of something huge nestled amongst the trees. Tony gestures at the screen with one hand and the crosshair flitters away from Fenrir and toward the general area in front of the wolf. There, smack dab in the middle of a small clearing, is an old, unremarkable cabin. 

Clint lets out a low whistle. “Me thinks the villain doth seen too many horror films.” 

“Please. Don’t speak like that,” Bruce mutters, squinting at the live feed. 

Tony frowns at the thermal imaging, watches Jarvis run scans over what seems like a basement. There, reclining on a table is a figure bathed way too much in blues to be human, and another blob moving around the room, all orange and red hues. 

“Found him.”

 

**–**

 

The general consensus was for Cap to stay behind to deal with the almost certain shitstorm once Fury was alerted, while Bruce remained nearby aboard the Quinjet as back-up. Tony had enough firepower to provide cover and to secure the perimeter as Natasha and Clint got their ninja-skills on and infiltrated the cabin. Thor, on the other hand, had to grudgingly accept his role as dogkeeper, making sure Fenrir didn’t go rabid on their asses. It was simple, really. 

But halfway to the assembly point, Steve radios in sounding confused. “Iron Man, the hostile’s gone. The thermal scan just showed one less body in the cabin.” 

“Our villain-nabbing villain’s hightailed? Seriously? Jarvis?” 

“There is no error, Sir. It appears that Loki is the only being present.” 

“Be careful,” Steve says through the intercom. “Our target could be waiting somewhere close by.” 

“Copy that,” Natasha’s voice sounds in, jerky with static. 

It’s another hour before Tony is flying overhead, and his sensors pick up Thor’s heat signature, along with Fenrir’s. He circles back a distance, lowering altitude and the noise of the suit’s jet boosters before scouting the perimeter. Tony settles himself on the ledge of a nearby cliff as he waits for Clint and Natasha to head in. 

With winter in full swing, the entire area is straight out of National Geographic, most every surface blanketed in pristine white snow, untainted and pure. Against the perfection, it is easy to spot the two figures camouflaged in white gear as their foot prints chart their progress towards the cabin. 

Tony hears the door creak open through his suit’s speakers. Natasha and Clint crouch low on either side of the doorframe and when there is still no movement, she darts in, Clint immediately covering her back. The first floor is covered within minutes, Natasha’s impassive voice radioing in, “All clear.” 

“There’s fucking nothing here, guys,” Clint whispers harshly into the comm. “It’s like a showroom.” 

“Hit the basement,” Steve answers. 

As expected, there’s a trapdoor at the far corner and the two assassins slip through it. Tony sees the two of them land in a crouch, pistols raised a second later. They push past a door and into the room that supposedly houses Loki – 

“ _Hooooly motherfucking sonuva **bitch**!_ ” 

“Clint!” Steve’s voice calls out over the intercom. 

“What has happened?” Thor demands. 

“Guys, this is just fucking _sick._ Didn’t everyone sign the fucking Geneva Convention? Did the supervillains get to skip out on that? Because seriously, somebody needs to force them to sign the motherfucking Geneva Convention!” Clint rambles and he only ever rambles like that when he’s drunk or panicking or being a pain in the ass. 

“The objective is secured, Cap,” Natasha says over Clint’s muttering because that’s really useful. 

“I want visuals, Black Widow. Give me a status update.” 

“Connecting a live feed now. Iron Man, meet us out front in ten. We need to transport Loki to the Quinjet.” 

“Your chariot’s on its way, milady,” Tony answers, dark and mirthless for once. His HUD quivers just as he lifts off the ledge, a new screen emerging with a live streaming of a crude torture chamber. Natasha steps closer to the inclined examination table with the tiny camera and Tony sees Clint appear opposite her. Tony can hear the slide of sharpened metal as Natasha withdraws a dagger and tosses it over to Clint. 

“Several chemicals have been pumping into his main arteries, moderate concentrations of known poisons. We’ve severed the tubes and will proceed to remove them from his body,” she reports, no inflection whatsoever in her voice and Tony is reminded of the snippets he’s managed to uncover of Natasha’s crazy, classified past. “We cannot identify what has been used to harm his eyes.” 

“Thor, return to HQ with Fenrir. Now, please.” 

It isn’t much but Tony’s suddenly relieved that Thor isn’t able to receive the footage. 

Over the camera, Tony can hear a faint moaning and he cannot tear his eyes away from the stupid, tiny screen. He sees Loki, stripped to nothing, his skin pale and ashen, livid bruises and angry scabs peppering his arms and legs. Everybody knows that Loki’s always been lean if not scrawny, but what they’re being shown now – it’s the damn Holocaust revisited. 

The camera shifts upwards toward Loki’s face and Tony is bracing himself for the mutilation when a gruff, frustrated voice growls through the comm. 

“Would anybody like to tell me what the _flying fuck_ you assholes think you’re doing? Would _anybody_ like to try and save their asses?” 

Fuck. 

The shitstorm has hit. 

“Sir, I can explain. But please let me give the team – ” 

“That’s _wonderful_ , Steven. Should I call for tea and biscuits while I’m _waiting?_ ” 

Tony winces. 

“No, Sir! – ” 

“My mother bid us rescue my brother, Director,” Thor explains, his voice muffled by the wind. 

“Did she now? Did I _not_ get the memo? Is Loki Odinson _no longer_ on our most wanted list? Did it all change overnight?” Fury adds in that little chuckle of his that Tony has long associated with his aneurysm face. 

“No, Sir, that has not changed. But we now have reason to believe that there might be something of even greater priority out there and – ” Tony gives a silent kudos to the Captain for that little bit waffling. It’s not that it’s not true, it just hadn’t really been the reason for this whole mission. 

“If you would not trust us, Director, I would have you speak with my mother. Might you concede this rescue as a truce, perhaps?” 

“Oh. Oh, I see. Are we gonna have those parent-teacher meetings, now? Are we?” 

There’s a notice blinking on his HUD and Tony accepts the private line, smothering the shouting match for a moment. 

“Yeah?” 

“Get a move on. We’re almost at the door,” Natasha says with a grunt. 

“Black Widow, be careful with his eyes. Make sure no snow touches the raw wound,” Bruce instructs. “Same goes for you, Tony.” 

The three of them just stagger out into the open when Tony cuts the power and lands beside them. He takes over, slinging one arm under Loki’s legs and the other about his shoulders. The two assassins break into a sprint for the Quinjet, leaving Tony to gingerly arrange Loki’s blindfolded head until it rests against his chest-plate. He resolutely refrains from looking at the rest of the sheet wrapped body. 

Tony sets the boosters to the third lowest thrust capacity and heads into the woods. 

The Quinjet is already up in the air and hovering by the time Tony finds them. He passes the body back to Clint and Bruce and waits for the door to seal up before he tunes into the group comms channel. 

“So…” He says intelligently. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You geniuses – shut up, Stark – are going to get your sorry asses back here and Loki’s going to the medic bay and he’s going to be considered our prisoner until we get this shit sorted out. And until then, not _one_ of you is going to say _a word_ to the council. Because if you do, and _when_ I find out, you are going to be cleaning every motherfucking stinkhole in this city and clearing everybody’s goddamn paperwork.” 

The response is immediate. 

“And will somebody tell me _what_ the fuck and _why_ the fuck is there a slobbering, mutated dog in the motherfucking kitchen?” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which chocolate is always an excuse for interaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I just wanted to thank you all so, so much for the support and sweet encouragement. They were unexpected and truly blew me away. Made my day every single time. Here's the next installment, happy reading. Cheers!

_Everything’s too muddled. He cannot concentrate. The fog’s too thick._

_Everything’s a mess, such a terrible mess. He hates messes. He likes to **cause** them. But he didn’t create this one, no, not this one. Though it was yelled at him, burned into him – oh, oh god, it hurts – screamed at him that it is his fault, everything’s his fault. Asgard has fallen and it was his doing. His children, the children he never raised, they are to blame too._

_But he doesn’t believe. He tries not to. He cannot._

_(Lies. ‘Your brother is **dead** ’ Lies. ‘Your child killed the Allfather.’ Lies. ‘You betrayed us **all**.’ Lies. Lies.  Lies…)_

_Everything’s hurting, everything’s loud and chaotic._

_He senses new company, hears voices he thinks he ought to know._

“Still nothing, huh?”

“I am not a doctor, Cap. Not a _doctor_ doctor. You’d have a better shot asking McCoy or Richards.”

“Is it normal for… gods to be out so long?”

 _There’s the trifling urge to answer that question. That no, it isn’t. It really isn’t. He thinks of explaining, of cussing in all the tongues he knows that his magic had been suppressed by the chemicals, crushed to nothing by poisons and concoctions a normal Asgardian would know not of. Not unless knowledge was garnered from a **mage**._

_He wants to scream in frustration and curse her name to the depths of Hel, he wants to rip out that vermin’s tongue and have him take back all those words, such poisonous **words**._

_But it is tiring. The thought alone is exhausting._

_So he sleeps on._

–

 

Tony, oh poor Tony, realizes he’s awake when he finds himself on the floor, his ears ringing, and a pillow flung some distance away from him. The order in which his addled mind processes the evidence, as expected by one so painfully awoken, is as follows:

On the floor. Head throbbing like a motherfuc-. Ergo, high-speed collision between floor and head. Ears ringing, muffled commotion outside… –

“Hey, Stark! Stark! Get your lazy ass off the fucking bed and get down to the med bay. Reindeer’s going apeshit down there. I’m bringing the popcorn!” Clint’s grating voice giggles from beyond the door. He can hear the glee in the man’s voice and it chafes at him.

“Jarvis?” he grumbles, rubbing his forehead sullenly.

“According to his vitals and the neuroimaging, I believe our prisoner’s in a state of hysteria, Sir.”

Tony frowns, pausing in his progress with the stubborn slacks. “Hysteria? Got a surveillance video?” One of the major problems they’d encountered in treating Loki was the complete lack of knowledge regarding what the hell had been introduced into his system. Of the seven different tubes stuck into his body, there was one that they could not figure out and given the way Loki’s condition refused to remain stable, it was the most potent one of all. It was also pissing Bruce off more than ever, not so much from concern, Tony knew, but from the _need_ to know. (And hey, Tony could relate to that.)

But more importantly, as the world knew, an angry Bruce was a highly dangerous Bruce that Tony would stay ten yards away from, preferably in a bomb shelter, and with a ten yard stick with which to poke the Hulk for communication. One poke might mean directions or _Hey! No distractions!_ And incessant, suicidal poking would mean the simplest command of all – _Smash!_

(Tony has it on good authority that it’s the Hulk’s favorite word. Scout’s honor. He’d managed to ask the green man himself once – just before he’d gotten fist bumped into the side of a public library. Fury hadn’t stopped bitching at him for months.)

The worry of a Hulk-Out, as Bruce has taken to calling it with an incomprehensible fondness in his eyes (everybody just grins and bears), had gotten so great that Thor, in one of his startling moments of insight, had just up and left, muttering something about an apple. At the time, Cap had been so filled with disbelief and frustration that Tony had desperately wanted to grab a chair and watch if it were possible for a man’s face to get any redder in irritation. Maybe super-soldiers had a different threshold for unnatural facial coloring or something.

But, alas, in The Great Snow White Parody of 2013, what Thor had ambled back to Asgard for was the mythical Apples of Idunn. And, to Thor’s grudging affirmation, the lore was in fact correct in speaking of its miraculous medicinal properties. (Thor had, however, been awful smug about an unrecorded little trivia – “I knew your little scribes would never have known the apples a favorite of Loki’s! Such humiliation, my friends, I feel sorry for you.”) Still skeptical, Bruce nevertheless agreed to him feeding Loki small, tiny slices until his brother’s skin had turned deep blue in a stunning progression of colors Tony remembered of his younger days in his father’s chemistry lab. Beautiful.

But the color – how he was meant to look, Thor had said softly – had only lasted a day before Loki was back to looking like an Asgardian.

A screen flickers to life on the wall and Tony squints at it. There’s Loki, squirming and screaming against the restraints, sheets rumpled and hospital gown sweat-soaked. There’s no risk of wounds reopening because of the wonders of the Apple (it deserves the Capital ‘A’), but Tony can’t help but worry about the exertion on that emaciated body. He doesn’t ask for Jarvis to zoom in, it’s clear enough the way every movement tugs the different muscles taut and strained.

Tony throws on a shirt and runs out of the bedroom.

 

–

 

Bruce is in the ward, trying to figure out a way to calm Loki down by the time Tony skids into the hallway. Through the large glass panel, he sees the doctor holding onto a syringe while Steve almost bodily wards Thor off. Because if anybody knew the blonde even just a smidge, it wouldn’t be a terrible stretch of the imagination to believe he’d simply be proclaiming it the Asgardian way before reaching over to physically shake his brother out of his episode.

Loki’s managed to rip apart the restraints on his ankles, those on his wrists barely holding. He’s shrieking something in a language Tony doesn’t recognize, but he can guess from the anger and desperation in his voice. Taking off the blindfold from the Trickster’s eyes might help…

“Anyone knows what Loki’s saying?” Tony doesn’t take his eyes off the god.

“Thor says he’s speaking in Old Norse. A language they used on earth centuries ago. He’s screaming for someone, and demanding they release him because nobody binds the god Loki. And when his voice breaks, like _that_ , he’s trying to negotiate,” Natasha says.

Tony’s mouth goes dry. He sees flashes of light in a dark, damp cave, hears the harsh, cruel orders barked in his ear before his world drowns in icy water that sucks the air from his lungs. Tony blinks several times, and tries to swallow past the lump in his throat.

Natasha’s staring at him, her expression unreadable.

“Erm,” Tony clears his throat. “Did you guys hear something loud just now? Like, er, a foghorn?”

“That would’ve been the god, Fenrir, Sir,” Jarvis supplies helpfully.

“Yeah, his damn bark practically shook the entire building,” Clint says from beside Natasha. His face is sullen and petulant and Tony figures Natasha must have stolen the popcorn or more likely, knocked it out of his hand. There’s a time and place for yaddayaddayadda. Poor idjit. (Not really.)

“Our guest tried to alert the Doctor when Loki’s vitals had spiked most erratically,” Jarvis intones. “Director Fury has since placed him under maximum security.”

“Seriously?”

“He was probably gonna go as apeshit as his _dad_.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Fury thinks he’s going to be able to restrain a magical, overgrown wolf? We have nothing that can match the stupid chains the dwarves made – what? I can read. I can do my homework – and Fury thinks he can control him?”

“A rather tragic overestimation perhaps, Sir? Which is why I do believe the alarm has sounded. Our guest has escaped.”

Tony tilts his head up towards the ceiling to clarify if maybe he’s got cotton wool left somewhere in his ears that he doesn’t know about, but he doesn’t get the chance – Natasha’s hissed, “Bozhe Moi,” causes him to look away.

The hallway, once quiet and empty but for the three of them, now has a gigantic beast sprinting full tilt towards the lit recovery ward. (Actually, it isn’t so much a sprint as it is a rhythmic thumping of heavy paws and the puzzling vanishing and reappearing of the wolf closer and closer like some sort of freaky specter.)

Oh shit, Tony thinks.

Natasha, bless her soul, whips out a frighteningly long dagger from out of _nowhere_ and darts in front of Tony, and he thinks of all the you-gotcha-ass-saved-by-a-girl jokes Clint’s going to be harping about forever. But Fenrir spares him, maybe, because he disappears when he’s several feet in front of them and materializes in the ward itself.

Tony wishes he could capture the look on Steve’s face for posterity.

They’re all caught by surprise, nobody knows what to do and Loki’s stopped screaming.

The blindfold’s finally slipped off his face and there are horrible pink scars smudging around Loki’s eyes in starbursts and trails from where the corrosive crap had streaked down his cheeks. The Apple was supposed to be all healing, the panacea, but Tony watches Loki, and his green eyes are unfocused and milky and the god’s looking but not _looking_.

“Fenrir?” the hoarse whisper manages to echo in the tense silence.

Loki lets his hands fall to the bed, pliant and hesitant. He isn’t quite facing the right direction. Fenrir snorts loudly, and jerks his head, nose twitching and huffy. With posture rigid and poised like a lauded, pedigree hound, Fenrir pads over with his head held high. Gently, he nudges Loki’s hand with his snout. Then, before anybody can protest (not that anyone would have, to be honest), he nips the straps around the bony wrist and yanks hard. It comes apart like a piece of tissue.

Fenrir plants his head on the bed, close to one hip, and laps meekly at his father’s fingertips. Tony notices how Loki’s fingers twitch and tremble, how he could so easily _touch_ and sink into midnight black fur, except he doesn’t. Loki’s still uncertain if this is real. 

Fenrir whines, a low, mournful sound that drags itself out of his throat, from deep in his chest. Natasha clenches her fist. 

Not too long ago, Tony thought he’d seen his fair share of weird shit, and meeting Fenrir had been a real eye opener. But this, _this_ , just takes the cake. 

Fenrir begins to shimmer, like pictures on the television from decades ago, disjointed and disturbed by poor connection. Fenrir shimmers, as if he isn’t tangible, and he morphs, in a transition so smooth Tony cannot catch. In the wolf’s place is a young man with ash gray skin, a litany of scars and runes carved into his subtly ridged flesh. 

Awkward fingers latch onto Loki’s hand, and Tony hears one of the worst sounds he’s ever had to listen to. 

It’s a mangled, garbled moan or whimper or _tortured_ crythat Tony realizes is Fenrir’s attempt to speak, evidently unused as he is to this form. Loki raises his hand abruptly, fingers finally fumbling over Fenrir’s eyes with muddled accuracy. 

“Fenrir,” he whispers, voice wet and rough. 

“Brother.” 

“Thor?” Loki answers just as weakly, not looking away, still in awe. “You are alive, then?” The words are meant to be cutting, the usual acerbic remark Loki so carelessly tosses around, but there’s no bite. 

“Yes. Should I not be?” Thor asks, caution in his voice. 

Loki smiles disparagingly. “Not according to him.” 

“ _Who?_ ” Thor manages to growl the word into a promised threat, and while it makes Loki’s smile grow wider, his shoulders slump and his body is a long line of defeat. When he turns at long last to glance at his brother, his eyes are cold and dead. 

“Tell me, brother, does Asgard still stand?” he says quietly, so distant and broken. It surprises Tony, the complete disregard for the open display of vulnerability. Tony’s only ever broken down like this in a haze of drugs and alcohol, completely out of his head and only ever in front of Pepper and Rhodey. (And not that he’d ever admit it aloud, but Tony used to think Loki reminded him too much of himself.) 

“It does. Of course, it does, brother. What is this foolishness?” Thor snaps. “What have you done?” 

Tony understands more than anyone ought to from that simple blink that lasts too long, that passing frown that mars the mutilated skin on Loki’s face. 

“ _Ragnarök,_ ” Loki shrugs, eyes red-rimmed and manic. 

Thor shoulders past Steve, an ugly mesh of emotions on his frowning face, and it is only the low growl that Fenrir emits that stops him from getting too close. “You lie!” 

“I – ” 

“That’s right ladies, he’s lying, he does that, we all know. It’s the other dimension’s Loki that did it to _his_ Asgard, not this one. You didn’t know? I’m _sorry_ , well, now you do. Pop out the fucking streamers. I’d _love_ to let this teary reunion drag on but I want all of you to get the fuck out. No, Cap, you, _stay_.” 

The two gods stare incredulously at the interruption. Nobody knows when Fury had slipped past everybody – well, not everybody, Natasha had noticed but hadn’t _bothered_ to say anything – and barged into the ward. Tony blames the live soap opera. 

“Director – ” 

“No. Out. Now. Your brother’s getting sanctuary in this place so _we_ ,” Fury barks, drawing circles with his hands. “need to know what’s gonna come smashing through the front door or fucking windows. We clear?” 

Thor can only look severely affronted before Bruce, with his zen like patience, maintains the face of utter serenity as he drags the Thunder God out of the room. 

Fury takes a step closer to the bed but Fenrir whirls around and bares his teeth, shoulders hunched and aggressive. Only, it would’ve been more impressive if he weren’t human and buck-ass naked. 

“Down, boy,” Fury waves his hand dismissively. “And get some clothes on yourself. I don’t care if you’re a god, I’m not subjecting my eyes to your exhibitionism, pup.” 

Steve catches Tony’s eye, poor wonder boy standing there awkwardly and Tony’s an asshole, so he waves cheerily and gives Cap two thumbs up before sauntering off. He’ll have time to badger Loki later if Fury’s going to be all secretive.

 

–

 

As it turns out, Tony doesn’t have to seek Loki out. Because Loki finds _him_. Or… rather, his _son_ does. Indirectly. Pretty much. 

Tony’s fallen asleep on the couch in the kitchen, folded in an awkward position with his head smushed against the armrest and his legs sprawled across the coffee table and cushion. He blinks his eyes open and grimaces at the drool pooled on the leather, crusted on his cheek. Thank god for stubble. Tony very carefully pushes himself upright, his muscles protesting with every inch – Tony hates being old. He takes a minute to orientate himself. 

He really needs to start treating his pimped out Ipad better. Or at least bless it with a screen protector. 

There’s a sudden, loud clatter of pots from behind him. And Tony absolutely does _not_ jump and shriek like a little girl. It was Clint. It was definitely Clint, his voice can carry, it can. Even past two floors. 

Tony presses a hand to his chest and _gasps_. He peers over the couch and spots an overly fluffy tail wagging dangerously amidst a fortress of fallen pots and pans. Edging to the side, Fenrir comes into full view, back in his monster-wolf form and unabashedly terrorizing the cupboards and drawers. 

“H-Hey. You hungry?” 

With all the grace of a newborn fawn, Tony gets to his feet and has to grab onto the back of the couch for balance. Fenrir whips around, as if he forgot that he was about the size of a horse and not exactly dainty, and sends the enamelware into another round of clanging. Ignorant of the noise, he raises his hackles marginally and holds his tail stiff and heavenward. 

Tony does believe in self-preservation, however poorly exhibited, so instead of rolling his eyes, he raises both palms and shuffles over lazily. 

“Yeah, yeah, you can flop that tail of yours down. You’re not the alpha here, wise guy. You’re hungry, _I_ know where the grub is, so you can pack away that pissy attitude, _pup_.” Right, maybe, Tony still lacks a good grasp of self-preservation. Nobody’s perfect. 

Fenrir snorts at him, narrows his eyes, but concedes to he-who-can-feed-him and lowers his tail. It doesn’t stop him from growling petulantly, though. 

“Alright, we’ve got steak, minced chicken, ribs – who the _hell_ stocks this fridge – er, beer, ooh-no, that’s not for you, the last thing I need is Fury after my ass for a drunk mammoth lumbering around. And we’ve got… those Apples. Yeah, wow, we have a _lot_ of Apples,” Tony mutters, leaning away from the oversized fridge he’d had installed. 

Fenrir’s ears pull back and he narrows his eyes – “Huh, heterochromia,” Tony says to the pair, one silver-green, the other red – fluffy tail slumped in submission. Tony gets nudged out of the way when Fenrir pads forward to sniff a golden apple. 

It might be cute, if it didn’t just hurt, the way Tony gets batted about by Fenrir’s happy, wagging tail as he gingerly takes about eight apples into his mouth and has the decency to look remotely sheepish when he does. 

“Your tail is a hazard,” Tony tells him levelly. “Is there anything else you change into? Something, I don’t know, _smaller_?” He flaps ineffectually at the fur. 

Fenrir pauses in his chomping to pin Tony with a deep, reproachful look that speaks volumes of the grave offence such a request incurs. 

“You can have all the Apples you want?” 

Tony gets a derisive huff for his effort. He’s thinking of upping the ante with maybe a fruit orchard all for Fenrir that he could frolic about in fruity revelry when there’s that shimmering again and a startled yip that comes from a bewildered looking wolf _cub_. 

Tony stares and stares because that’s the only appropriate reaction to this. 

Fenrir forgets himself and the transformation he’s never tried in all these millennia takes him by surprise. He’s unfamiliar with his short limbs and his snout is too stubby and his jaw too small and he hates this feeling. The apples that tumbled out of his mouth lie in a circle around him and he sulks.

 

–

 

“Fenrir, where have you – ” Loki turns away from his pillow and just stops. Slowly, and with great restraint, he raises his eyebrows. 

“I am the Santa Clause of your dreams and I come bearing great, _oof_ , gifts,” Stark announces loudly from behind a very large canvas sack. There must be a special art that the mortal has honed in his few years for he manages to make it through the door with both his arms wrapped around the stuffed bag, two mugs and a jumbo thermoflask clasped in his hands. He’s almost forgotten about seeking his son, except Fenrir decides to ~~bark~~  yip rather loudly from somewhere to the left of Stark’s head. 

He watches with no attempt at hiding his incredulity as Stark crab-walks over to his bed to let his son detach himself from where he’d been clinging onto the human’s back like a limpet. The small cub flops with childish grace onto his lap and Loki continues to stare. He’s not seen nor held Fenrir in this form since he was hidden from him – he’d been even smaller then. 

“Stark – ” Loki says. 

“ _Tony_ ,” he corrects with a wheeze. With the sack set beside the bed, Loki can see through the loosened drawstring that it is filled with golden apples. Golden apples. He tries not to care. Why should he feel anything that his brother went to such lengths to see him healed? 

“We are not friends, _Stark_ ,” Loki murmurs coldly. Fenrir sneezes on the bit of Loki’s hospital gown he’d been mauling. 

“Really?” the man huffs, dragging a chair over. “And here I was thinking all those lovely banters of ours were landmarks on the Path to becoming the Trickster’s BFF. What a thing to say to a guy, Loki.” 

“BFFs?” he parrots quizzically, absently taking the mug being thrust into his hand. 

“Best Friends Forever. Seriously, keep up,” _Tony_ says imperiously. 

“Plebian,” Loki retorts unhappily. 

“Hey, don’t insult the guy who brings you hot chocolate in winter, man,” Tony chides. 

“Oh?” 

Tony uncaps his flask and the strong aroma of cocoa _is_ pleasing. “Sure, it’s an amazing drink after a few tweaks, not as bad as you’d think for a substitute for alcohol.” 

Loki’s eyes drift and focuses intently on the muscles that tense and pull tight in Tony’s forearm as he pours a thick, decadent amount of the chocolate drink into the two mugs. Tony puts the flask aside and blows at the surface of his drink as if by rote, curiously honey colored eyes wandering at the ceiling, the walls, never still, never meeting his own. There’s a small scar that forms a short ridge across Tony’s right eyebrow and Loki finds himself itching to trace it, to see just how convex the tissue is, whether the skin is smoother than the rest of the rather weathered face. 

“Drink it before it gets cold. It’s not, erm, poisoned, or anything.” 

Loki purses his lips at that. He has no actual reason to trust the man, but he’s seen him take several sips, has gotten distracted, so he consents. Cupping the drink in his palms, the mug wonderfully warm in his cold hands, Loki steals a cautious taste. 

Tony _doesn’t_ smirk like a smug bastard when Loki’s eyes widen after tasting Tony Stark’s Signature Hot Chocolat with a touch of ambrosia (otherwise known as Port). 

“Would you like some?” Fenrir the pup, sullen at being forgotten, trots in furious circles over his father’s lap, ears pulled down in frustration. He may have been healed but Loki’s still far too frail and Tony notices every suppressed grimace. 

Tony glances at Loki. “Hey, hey, let’s give your da – ” 

There’s a small dagger in Loki’s hand where there’d been none before. Tony is surprised, sure, but he doesn’t hear a single panic alarm clamouring in his head, and maybe that’s what Rhodey and Pepper and Steve have been berating him for. 

“Huh. You’ve got your mojo back, then?” 

Loki shares a look with Fenrir, wary and guarded. “Just enough.” Tony nods his head. 

Still distrusting, Loki makes a show of picking up an Apple and cutting up thin, precise slices to dip into his hot chocolate. The drink’s thick enough that it coats the Apple slices rather generously before disappearing into Fenrir’s eager stomach. Tony makes a mental note to let the two of them try churros at some point. 

“Why exactly are you here, Tony?” Loki’s not looking at him, he’s looking just a tad affectionately at Fenrir, who only has eyes for the chocolate coated apples. Tony tries his best mask of innocence anyway. 

“To spare you from the terrible hospital food.” 

“I won’t tell you anything that the Director hasn’t decided to tell the rest of your posse.” 

“Stickler,” Tony snipes back. 

“I am _not_. I simply like to watch you squirm from the suspense,” Loki says with that flicker of emotion in his eyes that belies the nonchalance. 

Tony doesn’t glare, it’s unflattering. “You do, don’t you.” 

Loki gives him that evil, creepy smile that’s all teeth. 

“See if I bring you hot chocolate again.” 

“You will.” 

Loki gives him a knowing glance. Asshole. 

“Yeah, maybe.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which 'Stalking' should become an Olympic sport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey people. Man, after writing this chapter, I feel like I have to apologise for the way I have totally taken characters and just ROLLED with it, even if they might have popped up in the Marvel universe before. Trying to refrain from spoilers here, but I need to give a heads up and to plead for leniency should you think to yourself, wth? 
> 
> As I've said before, I've been overly liberal with the concept of Artistic Liberties and I hope, on some level, you'll still enjoy this story. 
> 
> Thanks to all those who left comments, I promise I'll answer them in the next few days. I've been trying to get this chapter out of my head.
> 
> Happy reading!

The conference room is always cold. It could be close to a hundred degrees outside and you’ve gained a thorough understanding of what it feels like to be a muffin in the oven, but step into the conference room and give it ten minutes tops – superhero or not, fingers begin to numb and suddenly, the heat won’t seem so bad. And it’s not as if Tony’s trying to contribute to global warming, he’s tried to raise the temperature but he just _can’t_. Not unless he’s willing to dedicate actual time and effort to busting the crazy override blocking Jarvis. And Tony just isn’t up for that.

Anyway, everyone’s pretty much convinced it’s some sort of sick ploy by Fury to make sure nobody falls asleep during his ~~bitchfit~~ briefings.

It’s a Wednesday and Cap’s called for an urgent meeting – urgent because most meetings are usually held on Sundays, _Stoned_ Sundays when the world takes a final breather before plunging into the abyss of Mad Mondays. Yeah, Tony thanks small mercies for the universal need – villains seemingly included – for Stoned Sundays. To be honest, Tony’s been itching for this little powwow of theirs. It’s been _two_ restless days since Tony introduced the wonders of hot chocolate to Loki and apart from becoming his goddamn servant, Tony’s been unable to get anything out of the Trickster.

(Yeah, yeah. Tony Stark – a pushover. Fuck off. Let’s see if a thousand two hundred pounds of snarling wolf doesn’t turn you into a pushover.)

If he ever asks himself _why_ he even bothers spending time with the asshole who threw him out a window, which Tony never will because it’ll just open a completely inconvenient can of worms, Tony would probably say it’s because keeping the god occupied stops him from looking so distant and that much closer to something Tony doesn’t want to consider. He’s seen the surveillance camera, he’s seen Loki zone out and the way he so clearly slips into his own dark little world of torture. He’s seen him flinch badly when Fenrir body slams his father out of his reverie and the reaction isn’t a reflex from a bad dream or some mutilated form of sleepwalking – where Loki goes is into his memories. And it’s painful to watch.

It’s a Wednesday and the conference room is too quiet. Most meetings, Tony’s reminded of a fish market he’d been to once in China, incognito. (Well, for a given sense of the word anyway.) Thor and Clint would be bickering over that week’s latest Midgardian discovery by the thunder god; Bruce and Steve would be attempting _calm_ , civilized conversation amidst the pub-brawl volume generated by just _two_ individuals – and Natasha… bless her violent soul, would be sitting pretty, looking for all the world like she’d rather be sharpening her knives in her room.

But it’s evidently been changed to Weird Wednesdays and nobody’s deigned to inform Tony, so Tony walks into the conference room to uncharacteristic silence. He takes a quick scan about the room through the lenses of his maroon shades and sees only solemn, constipated faces. Clint’s the only exception – he’s a study in barely constrained hyperactivity, restless and fidgety. His eye is twitching and his fingers make that increasingly annoying _tip-tap_ sound against the glass table and Tony’s getting twitchy himself just looking at the guy. Tony gives him a wide berth as he takes his seat.

Finally, after another few minutes of extended silence, Cap heaves a loud sigh and speaks.

“Okay team, so… we got the lowdown from Loki the other day and we’re essentially looking at Amora – ” Natasha snorts. The Avengers have learned that the special brand of animosity between the two of them is an ineffable inevitability that comes with belonging to the fairer sex and should not be commented upon. “And an Asgardian gone rogue. He goes by the name of Baldr.”

Thor shifts in his seat. “I know of him. Yes, he is one of the Æsir. Sif mentioned his disappearance once, a long, long time ago.”

“ _How_ long ago?” Clint says, his eye still twitching.

“A year, perhaps. It is most different the way Midgardians quantify time.”

“Anyway,” Steve cuts in. “According to Loki, he was summoned against his will through some sort of spell by Amora. She suppressed his powers long enough for Baldr to get him tied to the table and then they began the erm, treatment.”

Tony’s hand tightens painfully around his left wrist, the sharp throbbing starbright in his mind. He’s not going to go down that road, not now. It’s been _years_ , Tony, honestly. Get a grip.

“Loki says he remembers just a little bit of their conversations before the chemicals completely dulled his mind – Baldr apparently kept blaming him for Ragnarök, proclaiming that he needed to be punished. Loki says he remembers the insanity in Baldr’s eyes and the way Amora seemed impatient with his incessant blaming.”

“So, what? I’m not really seeing the point here, Cap,” Clint says.

“The point is, Baldr supposedly spoke of Ragnarökas if it’d already happened, which, as Thor can tell us, is a lie. The _point_ is that it’s only partially true,” Steve leans back in his chair, and takes a deep breath. “You’re probably not gonna believe this – I didn’t, and I had to pay fifty bucks to the Director for it – but what we’re looking at is inter-dimensional hopping.”

“You fucking with me?” Clint splutters.

Steve purses his lips and goes utterly silent in a way that doles out his displeasure in waves. It’s not just the swearing, it’s the tired, resigned sort of frustration that comes from a foreseen need to have to justify himself. So, no, Cap’s not lying, but the only reason Tony’s taking the man’s word for it right off the bat is because he’s given up thinking _anything_ is too impossible when it comes to this clusterfuck of events.

“No, Hawk, I’m not _fucking_ with you,” Steve says acerbically, churning out the cuss in a way that leaves Clint feeling like he’s been chided by his non-existent grandmother.

“It’s not that hard to prove. I mean, if another dimension exists, and Fury seems to think so, then if you take the nature of the punishment and superimpose it into the lore, then maybe the lore actually stems from the occurrences of the other dimension,” Bruce mutters mostly to himself.

Natasha finally leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “Doc?”

“Yeah, so what I’m saying is, Ragnarök did happen in the other dimension and everything we’ve read in Norse mythology is _real_. See, in the legends, Baldr wasn’t directly killed by Loki. Loki was bound and tortured because he impersonated a different god and refused to meet Hel’s conditions that would otherwise set Baldr free from the underworld. The god thus had to remain there until the end of Ragnarök where the whole world essentially self-destructed. So, what I’m thinking is that maybe, the Baldr from that dimension managed to warp himself over to this dimension and was trying to be pre-emptive about everything. Or just to exact revenge, I dunno. I’m pretty flexible with that bit of the storyline,” Bruce explains, smoothing out his frown with the last sentence, belatedly aware of how his voice had gotten more heated.

“Er,” Tony contributes, ever helpful.

“The Director’s got a slightly different theory. SHIELD has a tab on inter-dimensional travel over the last few centuries, and one of the Tesseracts been known to enable doors to different dimensions. Yeah, Thor, there’s more than one. And the Director told me that depending on the user, and the duration, the Tesseract can become sentient, taking on the nature of the user its had the longest interaction with,” Steve says. He runs a weary hand across his eyes. “The Director thinks the Baldr we’re gonna face is from _our_ dimension, but the possible interaction with the Tesseract might have driven him crazy.”

“And Amora’s just taking advantage of Baldr’s revenge on Loki to take a hit on Thor?” Natasha raises a dangerous brow.

“Pretty much.” Steve sighs a lot like an old man. Which, in all honesty, isn’t actually _wrong_.

“We got a plan yet? Defensive or offensive?” Tony says, reclining on his seat.

“I’m thinking defensive. We haven’t been able to pick up any trail on Amora or Baldr so far – ”

“You’re thinking of using Reindeer as the bait?”

“Yeah, Hawk. Doc thinks he’s about as healed as he can get, what with the Apples – ”

“You think him well enough, Doctor?” Thor’s voice suddenly booms over Steve’s. It isn’t a threat or meant to be intimidating, merely curiously serious, like there’re implications, but it’s enough to see Bruce’s hackles begin to rise.

“Yes. Yes, I think he is. He may still seem quite frail but there’s nothing _medically_ wrong anymore,” Bruce says levelly. Deep breaths, _in_ and _out._ In and out.

“I see. Then it is rather regrettable,” Thor says to the table. “Please excuse me, my friends. If this is all, I would speak to my brother and my nephew now.”

The god doesn’t wait for a response, almost bowling his chair over in his haste to leave the room.

“Awesome.”

Tony glares across the table, eyeballing Clint over the rim of his sunglasses.

“I am buying you a thesaurus for Christmas.”

 

–

 

Tony is a generous person by nature. His reflection tells him so every morning if he’s shaving, the dozens of charitable organisations he’s donated to every year tells him so, his favourite waitress at the little café just a few blocks away from his Malibu mansion used to tell him so too (rather excessively, but hey, Tony’s not gonna deny being an egoist).

Tony is a generous person, period – which is _why_ he gives Thor about a half hour head start before discreetly excusing himself from the conference room. Not that it’d been a great effort on his part; the meeting had erupted into full on speculative bickering over Thor’s enigmatic exit and it’d been noisy enough that not even Tony’s yelling had garnered acknowledgement.

“Jarvis,” Tony sing-songs as he skips his way to the medical bay.

“Yes, sir,” For an AI, Jarvis manages to sound decidedly long-suffering. “I have already begun the recording.”

“Huh. Excellent. Get yourself a boatload of virtual cookies. Or brownies. I forget what you prefer.”

“A point of interest, Sir,” Jarvis says monotonously.

“Yeah?” Tony fairly glides down the last few steps two at a time.

“Some might term this behaviour invasive and _stalker-ish_.”

Tony stumbles over the corner of the carpet.

“Did you – Did you just use ‘stalker-ish’? That’s not even a word! That’s not – I didn’t program you to… it was bloody _Queen’s_ English all the way,” he splutters against the wall. God, his heart cannot take such surprises. (The carpet, not Jarvis) “Has someone been dicking around with your programming?”

“I’m certain I do not know what you mean, Sir.”

Tony massages his nose bridge. “Fucking liar. I bet you’re the one corrupting yourself. Such _language_ , Jarvis. Christ. Hasn’t Daddy done enough for you yet?”

“I hear that coining oneself ‘Daddy’ in a particular context and situation, rather like this, is typically suggestive and unbecoming, _Sir_.” Tony has to recoil at the seduction just dripping from the voice.

“Just, just stop, Jarvis. I take back what I said, I’m gonna kill _Loki_ for this.”

His AI merely hums.

Tony pads more quietly once he’s at the door to the medical bay. Whipping out his anorexic phone, he taps the screen and drags it onto the nearest wall. With his thumb and index finger, Tony enlarges the projection.

There’s Thor by the foot of the bed, Loki looking small and swaddled by the sheets and Fenrir… well, Fenrir’s a peculiar smudge on the screen. It’s too blur to really make out their expressions, but Thor’s always been a man of great gesticulation and habit, so it hardly takes a genius to figure out that he’s gotten predictably agitated. Loki, on the other hand, is the personification of a clam. For all that his emotions come in sharp, thunderous bursts, always obvious and always angry, Tony likes to think he knows better. Loki had earned for himself the name ‘God of Lies’ long before he’d been potently bitter with the truth of his adoption after all. If he thinks on it hard enough, tries to recall how he’d been like as a teenager, how he still is, actually, Tony recognises what Loki’s been doing all along.

Loki is Tony looking into a mirror on a bad day. Loki is a blank canvas and walls and walls of reinforced concrete holding back an entire ocean.

It’s not really fifteen minutes before Thor walks out of the screen. Tony lingers at the mouth of the hallway long enough to see the coiled, unmoving lines of Loki’s body slump. And it’s his cue to make a move on it. Tony clears his throat and finds Thor pacing outside his brother’s ward like an uptight lion.

“Tony Stark,” he says, sounding not the least bit surprised.

“Hey, er, big guy,” Tony says, doing his best to meet the intense look Thor’s pinning him with.

“Have you come to visit my brother?” It’s a little strange that he leads with that rather than the Spanish inquisition on _why_ Tony would even visit Loki. (Maybe he seems fine with the notion because he doesn’t really see Loki as a prisoner.) But Thor isn’t exactly the brightest little star in the nine realms and he doesn’t seem to question Tony’s impeccable timing so Tony takes it as a win and runs with it.

“Yeah – ”

“That is good. My brother speaks fondly of you when he would speak at all,” Thor says mildly. “And I think he might benefit from your company in this hour.” 

“Is this about that decision you said he’d have to make?” Tony asks, blissfully ignoring the legion of awkward turtles that would breed from acknowledging Thor’s observation. (‘Fondly’? Who’s he trying to kid?) 

Thor exhales heavily, a loud _hoompf_ that actually ruffles Tony’s hair. “Indeed.” 

“Right, so, erm, I’m just gonna go in and er – ” Tony makes a vague gesture with his hands. 

“Yes, do. I shall take my leave and see if the good Captain would be up to sparring.” 

“You go do that,” Tony gives his most winning smile and darts into the ward.

 

–

 

He is greeted by a _‘yip’_ the moment the door slides shut. 

Tony turns on his heel and sees Fenrir all fluffed and cuddly, draped over his father’s lap. The pup looks expectantly at him, tilting his head in a wordless question for chocolate. He isn’t looking forward to the guilt-tripping disappointment but Tony lifts his hands and shakes them – ain’t got nothing, sorry. 

“You were watching us, no doubt?” Loki says quietly. 

There’s no point in denying it, is there? 

“Couldn’t hear you guys, though. And Fenrir was a smudge through the camera. What’s up with that?” Tony shrugs, ambling closer. 

Loki meets his eyes and they are bloodshot and dead. 

“Fenrir was in his birth form. The humanoid form, you might say. It doesn’t register very well – ” 

“Something to do with magic?” 

“In a manner of speaking, that form isn’t entirely tangible. I believe you would call it supernatural,” Loki explains, running long fingers through the thick, black pelt. “Like names, our true form holds power. As it is, he can never reveal it in dreams.” 

“Which is why you knew he was real that day?” 

Loki’s lips quirk into that damn, patronizing smirk of his. “Bravo.” 

Dulled, moss green eyes turn to stare unflinchingly at him. “Why are you here, Tony?” 

“You’re really asking me that? Will it make a difference if you _hear_ me ask the question?” 

Fenrir whines into the blanket. Propping himself up on his four, stubby legs, he pads over his father’s feet in circles, pressing the sheets into shape. Finally satisfied, he lets himself fall in an undignified heap. Tony watches Loki wiggle his toes under his son’s body heat. 

“Fine. I’m dying to know what ultimatum the Allfather is giving you.” 

Tony hadn’t thought it possible but Loki’s face manages to shut down even further, devoid of _any_ emotion in a way that goes beyond what words can possibly describe. 

“Interesting choice of words. ‘Ultimatum’, indeed,” the god murmurs. “Most would simply have asked what ‘decision’ I am being forced to make.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m a diva,” Tony winks conspiratorially at him, even as a sinking feeling blooms in his chest. 

Loki leads with this, “I have been exiled and disowned.” 

Tony stares. 

“Odin believes that my meddling with the matters of Midgard is a mark of disrespect against him, given the official protection Asgard has offered your people. After the incident with the jötunns – _my_ people – and the issue with the Tesseract, he believes that short of this, I will never change. So, like Thor, I am to learn humility by exile.” 

“So…” 

“ _So_ , either I redeem myself by undefined perimeters, or I remain _unchained_. Personally, I do not see much competition in this.” 

“You’d rather be disowned and exiled?” Tony sinks into the bed by Loki’s feet. 

“Has it ever been any different?” Loki remarks idly. Tony wants to say that it couldn’t have been that bad; that before he discovered his parentage, Loki himself had believed in his family and shouldn’t that count for something? But Tony says none of this. It might be hypocritical of him. 

When there is only silence, Loki lowers his guard just a little, enough for the hard edges around his eyes to soften. 

“And Odin demands that Fenrir return to the island. A fair-won condition must be honoured, he says.” 

“As in, the whole legend thing – ” Tony looks at the pup slumbering away. 

“A little. It was a test of strength, a game. If Fenrir lost, then he would have to remain in the chains he failed to break free from. But they were simply _scared_ , of his might, his power, of how he would well mature into a monster – into _me_ , had they known that I too am of jötunn blood.” 

Tony worries his lower lip sore trying to ignore the way it feels difficult to breathe, that sinking feeling now constricting his chest. It isn’t pity and it sure as hell isn’t affection (possibly. Most likely), but perhaps it is sympathy. Empathy. He’s had his time, Tony, when he’d been worth nothing more than the death toll and destruction his hands created and people had looked at him in wonder and disgust. 

Tony is careful not to wake Fenrir when he smoothes the downy fur on his head, between his ears, his belly. He tries to find the words while his throat just feels like it’s going into anaphylactic shock. 

“Look, you can take it from a stranger, someone _objective_ ,” Tony begins. “You’re not a monster. Not you, not your son.” 

Loki is staring at him impassively when he finally lifts his gaze from trying to discern the thread count of the blanket. 

“Being a monster isn’t determined by looks. It’s determined by actions and character. And yeah, we all have violent thoughts every now and then, but that doesn’t mean shit. What causes these thoughts matter, whether we decide to act on these thoughts matter. And nobody who’s a monster would ever acknowledge that they’re one,” Tony says in all seriousness and lord, he knew there was a reason he didn’t do this often. 

“And you would know all about being a monster,” Loki sneers. It takes Tony by surprise – it’s a sneer that comes from disbelief, not mockery. Loki doesn’t _know_ about Tony and the fuck-all that he’s done to Earth. 

“Yeah, I do. You could ask anybody. Well, not Thor, he’s as clueless as you are on this. And maybe Cap too, ‘cause everyone knows he’s been in hibernation for the better part of my life.” 

Loki narrows his eyes at him. 

“Trust me.” 

Loki purses his lips and he looks so much like a vulnerable little boy, Tony wonders how he must have been as a child – uncertain and insecure and living in the blinding presence of his brother. 

“Why should I?” Loki asks, soft and wavering. 

“ _Why_? Because in the immortal words of he who is wise, ‘ _the hand that gives thee chocolate, will always give thee only truth_ ’.” 

It really isn’t that funny, and it’s so cheesy and weak, bordering on atrocious and Tony’s had better days, but Loki laughs. 

It is full-bellied, deep and rich and _beautiful_. 

“Liar.” 

“I learn from the best.”

 

–

 

Natasha is waiting for him in his workshop sometime after dinner. She’s seated all dainty and ladylike on a suspiciously clean workbench he’s forgotten existed and the look of serenity on her face is worrying. 

“Hey ‘tasha.” 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” 

Tony raises an eyebrow. 

“Working on Mark Eight? It’s gonna be a doozy, I tell you. I’m thinking full blown aeroplane, like a Transformer. You ever read the books? Seen the show? Wasn’t too bad an adaptation, actually,” Tony rambles, reaching for a soldering iron. “Shit, wait, you were busy going ninja on people’s asses, weren’t you? I’m gonna nominate the film for Movie Night next week, then – ” 

“ _Tony_.” 

Natasha _never_ calls him Tony. 

“Pepper doesn’t have the time to watch you as closely and she doesn’t know what to look out for some times. But _I_ do. So, I’m asking, for her sake, and ours, _do you know what you’re doing with Loki_?” 

“You’ve been stalking me stalk him?” Tony says weakly. “You can’t spring these things on me like that, sweetheart. My old, weathered heart can’t take these surprises.” 

Natasha rises to her feet in one graceful move and bridges the distance between them in moments. She grabs his face in her calloused palms and _glowers_ at him. 

“I’m not even going to mention _fraternization_ , I’m not even going to mention what Fury would do to your remains once he has me murder you after he finds out, I’m not even going to mention how hurt Pepper is going to be when she sees you dead before she could kill you _herself_ for not telling her about this _thing_ , Tony.” 

So this is how it feels to be interrogated by the Black Widow. Like an ant before a dragon spitting fire. Spiffy. 

“There is no _thing_ , hun. Scout’s honor.” That much is partially true. Tony doesn’t know what the hell is going on between himself and the Trickster. He doesn’t analyse feelings, he has them, lets it take him high or drink himself stupid, and just runs with it. Never let it be said that Tony doesn’t self-reflect – he’s figured out why he sucks at relationships a week after messing up what he and Pepper had. 

“I’m telling you there _is_ , and maybe you’re in denial or maybe you’re genuinely dense, but it’s _there_ and I’m telling you it’s important,” she says not unkindly. She still hasn’t loosened her death grip on his face, though. It’s making his words come out funny. 

“For you guys or me?” Tony tries to say as best he can. 

“Both,” she says, taking a step back. 

“You’re a genius, Tony. Think about it. This could go two ways – make it work, and there can only be a beneficial outcome. He’ll be _happy_ for once.” 

“You ever thought of changing your specialty to the love guru? Will you give me an autographed copy of the Karma Sutra? Or is there a Russian equivalent?” Tony mutters waspishly. His cheeks sting. 

“Shut up, Stark,” Natasha growls. She makes for the door in a whirl of crimson hair. “I’m trying to do us all a favour. And when you see him again later, tell him his father has sent down the order for Fenrir. The god goes back tomorrow night.” 

Tony stares after her. If that wasn’t the deal breaker for Weird Wednesday, he doesn’t know what can be. Natasha’s never been a _girl_ , not really. She’s hot, feisty and just lethal. But she’s quiet and reserved and intolerant of Tony on a deeply profound level that has had the Avengers introduce yoga to her as intervention. That she went out of her way to _talk_ to Tony about _feelings_ , the proverbial heart-to-heart chats like Tony’s one of her girlies is just terrifying. He tries to comfort himself in the knowledge that it’s probably because she’s with Pepper now – Pepper is a woman of unfathomable skills of persuasion. Tony knows this most intimately. 

“This isn’t an episode of Twilight Zone, right?” 

“No, Sir,” Jarvis intones. “I do believe it is Miss Romanov’s time of the month.” 

Tony grimaces. 

“Stop talking, Jarvis. For real, this time.”

 

–

 

The teeny, tiny clock on the monitor says it’s three in the morning. 

Tony’s been working without pause from the moment Natasha left him. His source of distraction limited to his secret stash of brandy and the modifications for the new suit. He hadn’t been kidding about the Transformer-concept. (Tony’s generous _and_ indulgent. No arguments there) He maybe considered for all of thirty seconds the yelling he’s bound to get from Pepper over him breaking his cold turkey attempt after the first sip of the night, because if Natasha is watching him, then Pepper’s going to know with just a lag of perhaps five minutes. ( _Women_. Tsk.) But Tony’s indulgent and he resigns himself to growing a pair come tomorrow’s feminine wrath. 

It’s half past three now and he’s caught four hours of rest in the last forty-eight hours because between the project and Tony’s insomnia, it isn’t supposed to be surprising. But he’s feeling the weariness now, it’s creeping up on him in the way his fingers are refusing to grip the screwdriver, in the way his vision is getting a little murkier than it usually is. 

But worst of all, it’s clear in the way his mind keeps drifting to the person currently dozing off in the medical bay with a puppy curled over his belly this time. 

Tony stands up and pops his back slowly, then wanders out of the workshop and lets his feet carry him to the ward. He’s lost count of the amount of alcohol he’s guzzled down, so he professes himself blame free for the way he slips quietly into the room and takes a seat beside Loki on the bed like it’s his god-given right. Though, if he’s to be honest with himself, it’s an excuse and he’s still far too sober for his liking. 

The mattress dips as he takes his perch and the slight movement rouses Loki from his half-hearted sleep. The Trickster’s eyes are unfocused and fogged, pupils blown wide and disoriented as they try to centre on the intrusion. Tony finds the most stunning pair of laurel green irises staring back at him and it yanks Tony back to the happiest days of his childhood, precious time spent trawling through his own chemistry lab, fiddling with experiments and discovering only the most captivating of reactions. (He knows the colour and he remembers chromium.) Tony finds himself staring into unguarded emotion, raw and vulnerable, and he’s certain Loki isn’t aware of this and Tony thinks _fuck_ , _oh fuck, I’m so screwed_. 

He takes a large gulp from his flask. 

“What are you doing here?” Loki mumbles faintly, squinting at the liquor. 

“Nothing,” Tony whispers just as softly. “Fenrir’s gotta go tomorrow, didjoo hear?” 

Loki’s face crumbles as he nods imperceptibly, a resigned despair Tony cannot stand to look at. He wants nothing more, in that instant, to make it all better, for Loki to _stop hurting_. He wants to reach out, fuck this drama, and just run his fingers through the dark hair. Tony wants to press a kiss to his forehead, right between Loki’s brows to see if it would smoothen out. 

And Tony does because he tells himself he’s drunk enough, and because he fucking _can_. 

“Tony,” he hears that velvet voice sigh. He has to close his eyes. 

Tony edges himself off the bed. “Go back to sleep,” he says, running his hand through soft, black hair a final time. 

He will pull up a chair and seat himself with the intention of staying only until Loki has begun to dream again. 

But it doesn’t happen. 

Tony will rise in the morning with the mother of all cramps, jolted awake by a pensive looking Fenrir (in his boy form). And Tony will take a moment to stare in disbelief at the image of Loki sleeping on. 

He’ll get _nothing_ done for the rest of the day.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know now" is what he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in under a week? What. The. Hell. (Don't learn to expect this, though) I dunno but the muse has just been around. I don't wish to jinx this though. So, yeah. Not too many chapters more, in any case.
> 
> There's erm, a shameless reference to a favourite band of mine in this one :3
> 
> Thank you once again for the overwhelmingly sweet words of encouragement <3 Happy reading!

When Tony is twenty-one and new to being king of the Stark empire, he meets Pepper Potts after she points out a rather unbecomingly careless mistake in the accounting he’d personally done. She hadn’t flinched at his thinly veiled caustic remarks to cover up his embarrassment; she hadn’t backed down when he’d tried toying with her inevitable crush on him to turn the humiliation on her instead (Tony’s come to term these crushes from men and women alike as _The Phase_ ). All Pepper had done was to ignore the faint blush tainting her cheeks, and frown at Tony like she’d already known then that he was going to be the largest bane of her existence.

He’d immediately hijacked her from the secretarial pool and declared her his PA.

When Tony is twenty-two and he’d been photographed at a party drunk out of his mind and making out with two, three, maybe seven dudes and chicks, they have _The Conversation_. That is, Pepper almost ties him to a chair in his office and shrieks at him to _shut the hell up, Tony, you’re going to **listen**_ _to **me** and not your own damn voice for once_. In his defense, he was still a baby in the big world of alcoholics and the heavy drinking from the night before had still been in his system. He really couldn’t be blamed for the way Pepper had to repeatedly hit the upside of his head to get him to focus on her speech. Nor could he be blamed for the way he kept getting side tracked by the captivating beauty a pissed off Pepper could be.

“You are going to answer _any_ questions I am going to ask you, are we clear? I don’t care if you think it’s too personal, I _really_ don’t give a _damn_ at this point, Tony. Because your stupid stunt last night is about to give the company a _fuck_ ton of problems – don’t you dare call me on the vulgarities. You, working with you could make a nun start swearing like a sailor – and I am _literally_ holding back the public release of your manslut prowess with a crumbling wall. So you are going to tell me, firstly, _what the hell is your sexuality?_ ”

That had been the first in a long line of very awkward questions that just got more and more awkward for Tony and more and more frustrating for Pepper. Poor Pepper. Poor Tony. He’d had his first, official Sex-Talk-His-Dad-Never-Managed-To-Give with his PA. Who had gotten almost as red in the face as her hair color.

And as _fun_ as that had been, Tony never, never _ever_ wanted a repeat of it.

But Tony being Tony, must have severely pissed off the gods who reside up top (Tony’s agnostic about ninety-nine percent of the year, and heavily religious sometime around the end of the fiscal year), because more than two decades later, he’s ambushed by _Captain America_ of all freaking people for a derivative of The Conversation.

Steve may be his unofficially official BFF, but there are _days_ when Tony wishes he could strangle the man and not have his wrist broken by Steve’s self-defensive reflex.

“Hey Tone,” he greets with deplorable acting in the school of nonchalance. Tony might have combated that with a witty rejoinder but he’s not had his coffee fix yet and after the stupid drinking and watching Loki sleep, he _needs_ his coffee.

Tony just grunts and drags his feet, meandering in the general direction of the countertop. Steve accepts the formal greeting with his usual saccharine cheer and putters about the kitchen like a housewife.

With Herculean effort, Tony hauls himself up onto one of the stools and slumps over the table with a huff. His body is protesting from the abuse of falling asleep in a chair.

“Here. You look terrible, this one’s a double shot,” Steve says kindly, placing a large mug in front of Tony’s nose, and runs a big hand through Tony’s hair, making it stand up in a bajillion directions. _Thanks,_ Steve.

Cradling the cup closer until his nose is squished against the warm porcelain, Tony inhales deeply like a crack addict and moans. He smirks at the red tips of Steve’s ears only after taking two large sips.

“So, er, I think we need to talk,” is what he says while his hands fidget with the hem of his manly half-apron. (It has giant, smiling cookies and milk cartons holding hands and hot pink lining. But gag gift or no gag gift, Cap just wears it to avoid hurting Natasha’s feelings.)

Tony narrows his eyes and wraps a protective arm around his mug.

“Is there… anything you wanna tell me, Tone?” Steve asks, lowering his voice and entering his pseudo-father mode.

“No,” Tony murmurs defensively.

“Tony.” Steve’s got the bluest, prettiest set of eyes Tony’s ever seen and Steve knows its charm and God knows he’s not above using it when necessary. Cap tilts his head a fraction, and unleashes his most imploring look on Tony. Asshole.

“Natasha is such a tattletale,” Tony grouses to his mug.

“Nah, don’t blame her,” Steve says, flicking Tony’s forehead. “She just confirmed things.”

He isn’t prepared for Tony to look like a deer caught in the headlights, mouth hanging open and catching flies. Steve feels a twinge of hurt.

“I’m not _dense_ , Tony. I may not have… seen that much action as a youngster – ” _Jesus_ , Tony thinks, because who the hell uses ‘youngsters’ any more, it’s like talking to his great, great-grandfather. “but I know how to observe, I can tell the signs.”

“What,” Tony spews, heady with caffeine and too little sleep. “Are you gonna tell me you’ve known _all along_ because we’ve been making googly eyes at each other? Mooning like star-crossed lovers? Because, hey there, _he threw me out of a window from really, really high up._ I’m pretty damn sure it’s no romantic gesture, even by Loki’s standards.”

“Well, not in so many words,” Steve says, calmly propping his chin up on one hand. “Tony, take a deep breath. I’m not Fury.”

“No pun intended, horrible grammar aside.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s just been a gut feeling, okay? I mean, when I first met you, you were just angry and caustic, y’know? And then there was the whole Phil Scare that sorta glued us together, sorta, but I know that wasn’t really the reason for you. You just worked together because… I still don’t know, to be honest. But Loki throws you out of a window and you loosened up,” he says.

“You make me sound like a masochist,” Tony says, deeply affronted.

“Aren’t you?” Steve sounds genuinely surprised. “Anyway, point is, you _know_ that we can hear every single conversation that you have with him during each fight, right? Because, as your friend, I have to tell you that your so-called witty banter just makes you two sound like an old, married couple.”

Tony’s finger twitches.

“And, on occasion, you two were laying on the coy, wildly-inappropriate-for-a-lady’s-ears flirtation pretty damn thick.”

Tony doesn’t know what to feel. There’s disbelief, mostly, because that is _so_ far from the truth. There may have been just one or two innuendoes flung about in the air, and there were some references to _positions_ but c’mon, that was all.

Except, hearing it straight from Steve, hearing what Tony himself never allowed his brain cells to go to waste mulling over… it’s hard to deny anything.

“Look, Tony, I’m not saying I’m encouraging this – whatever this is – but I’m not going to say ‘don’t do it’ either. Because we both know that Loki’s not exactly a villain. He’s Thor’s little brother, and he’s a gigantic thorn in our side, but he’s like a really, terribly misguided youngster, don’t you think?” Steve says, raising his eyebrows and thinning his lips, as if his expression was made to reinforce his point. Like, _see Tony, see? See how high my brows are, they’re telling you to tell me you agree_.

“First of all, please, for the love of God, don’t use ‘youngster’ anymore – ”

“Don’t use His name like that, Tone.”

“ _Ignoring_ that, second of all, if you reached a point it escaped me. Are you trying to say I should go for it? What? Help me out here, _dad_.”

“I’m saying that you two could help each other. I’m saying you could be good for each other. I’m _saying_ , that of all the people in this world, he’s probably the only one who will ever _get_ you on a deeper level.”

“He’s not even from this world,” Tony points out.

“Well, yeah. Strengthens my point that you might maybe wanna sort out the things in your head and find that you could probably try to get things to work out. What’s the worst that could happen?”

The sentence lingers in the air. And isn’t that a loaded question.

“Er, he might finally destroy Earth if we broke up? Just saying.”

Steve straightens from the countertop and squares his shoulders. Stretching over, he claps Tony on the shoulder. “Don’t screw up,” he clears his throat.

 

–

 

Nobody actually knows what time they were expecting Fenrir to be taken away, nor does anybody know in what manner was the god going to be taken away. Were the Asgardians going to beam down a blinding ray of light over the wolf and whisk him away, or were they going to send a legion of gods to escort him back to the island? Either way, Tony gives Jarvis explicit orders to gather intel and to alert him the moment there is any indication of Fenrir disappearing.

The notice comes around some time in the late afternoon.

“Sir, I have detected traces of the Bifrost,” Jarvis suddenly cuts off the noise that passes for music in the workshop. “Queen Frigga has appeared in the ward. Thor is with her at present.”

Tony hollers his thanks, and Jarvis tracks his creator’s actions as an unprecedented move – he’s never seen the man drop the tools so carelessly and without so much as an inch of hesitation before.

Tony sprints up the stairs, subconsciously counting the steps because it’s something to do and heads for the medical bay by memory. The mansion really is too damn big. The white walls seem to go on forever, and the silly pillars he’d thought kinda majestic (completely met Thor’s approval, those) just bleeds into one after the other and Tony swears some unfortunate soul is going to run right into them one day because there’s always somebody in a rush when the mission alarm rings. And knowing Tony’s luck, it’ll probably be him.

He tries to catch his breath by the time his feet hit the entrance to the wards, tries futilely to smooth down his grease stained shirt.

Thor takes one cursory glance at him when Tony walks slowly over, and inclines his head in an oddly regal gesture.

“I trust nobody else should arrive? I do not think Loki would stand for the eyes of too many,” Thor says gravely. Tony doesn’t comment on how Thor’s figured out that Tony’s been keeping tabs on all things Loki.

“Yeah,” Tony says absently. He doesn’t bother adding that the rest of the Avengers were either too polite to intrude or simply couldn’t be bothered.

Through the glass panel, Tony watches the Queen remain by the foot of the bed, saying nothing, merely waiting. She doesn’t look at Loki, her eyes cast down to the sheets. Fenrir isn’t a wolf this time, perhaps giving this entire parting a significance Tony doesn’t want to acknowledge – he’s a boy, ash gray and in his true form, as Loki had said.

They’re talking, or rather, Loki is, soft and low and Tony cannot understand a word. The walls of the medical bay are reinforced and thick, sound rarely penetrating the concrete, a design for privacy Tony has recently begun regretting.

“Er – ” Tony says.

“It pains me to listen, my friend,” Thor suddenly says, breaking the silence and reading Tony’s fucking mind.

“I can’t – ”

“If only there was greater privacy, Tony Stark. The walls are too thin. Perhaps you might change that in time,” he continues, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s just got superior hearing abilities.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Tony blinks. “I actually meant I couldn’t understand what Loki’s saying – ”

Thor shakes his head sadly. “Ah yes, they are conversing in our native tongue.”

“But would you wish to know,” he asks, expecting Tony to say no, undoubtedly. Except Tony does want to know, he wants to know what makes Loki’s eyes glisten under the faint lights, he wants to know why those thin hands are quivering even as they hold onto Fenrir’s wrists. (But he can guess.)

“He is apologising to Fenrisúlfr. He is begging for forgiveness – he has never begged, my friend, Loki Odinson _does not_ beg. He says he’d tried; after Fenrir had been taken away from him at birth, after he’d found out about the test and his imprisonment, my brother says he’d tried to find him,” Thor translates quietly. “And it is the truth, Tony Stark. My brother hunted down every single one of the Æsir present at Fenrisúlfr’s binding but not one would tell him. Loki would have killed them all had I not intervened. But those men could not have told him even if they’d wished to break oath. The Allfather had been the one to pass approval of this test on Loki’s firstborn.”

Tony turns away when Fenrir wraps his wiry arms about his father in an uncharacteristically human gesture.

“The Allfather believed Loki to be too young to raise a child, let alone one of jötunn descent. At the time, he thought it best that Fenrisúlfr be raised in isolation. But when he began to show signs of great strength and immense power as befitting a frost giant, my Father grew wary and he sought a way to control this. It was simply a matter of coincidence that the same gods, whom my Father would eventually send to gather all of Loki’s children, suggested the game in a drunken fit.”

“So, it was an _age_ thing, no teen moms and dads on Asgard? It wasn’t a prophecy thing?” Tony asks more harshly than he intended.

“No, it was no prophecy that proved the impetus for the Allfather’s judgment,” Thor says levelly. “My Father had done what he’d thought was in the best interest of all.”

“I think that’s pushing paternalism a little far,” Tony mutters, his fingers tapping against the arc reactor.

“On hindsight, I suppose I cannot but agree the decision too extreme. No child should grow alone, without guidance and love, my friend.” Tony bristles under the wistful tone.

“Did you know about all this?”

Thor ducks his head. _Christ_. “My Father swore myself and the others to absolute secrecy, casting a spell that would ensure that the location would never be revealed.” He turns mournful eyes to look at Tony. “But my brother never once approached me, not once, because such was his trust in me when we were young.”

There are a million things that Tony craves to say in response and not one of them good. It’s a laundry list of insults and barbs and caustic remarks, tapering into name-calling by the bottom and Tony knows that Loki would be proud, if not at least amused by every single one of them.

Instead, he nods his head at the room, “What’s Loki saying?”

Thor turns his attention back to the ward, and frowns.

“ _‘I know now. And I will find you.’_ ”

Tony grits his teeth.

“ _‘I know now. Wait for me.’_ ”

 

–

 

Tony doesn’t step into the medical bay for several hours after. He leaves off visiting for as long as he can because remembering how small Loki had seemed in the oversized hospital gown with his pink, scarred eyes did things to his chest that just couldn’t be good for his health.

But Tony’s spared the temptation to succumb to the impulse of bursting into the ward with a barrel of hot chocolate and the finest whiskey he’s got in storage if only to see Loki with any expression that isn’t a variation of sadness. 

He finds himself stuck in the middle of another team meeting not long after the send-off, and this time, it’s every bit as noisy and raucous as he expects. Clint is such a bundle of giggles. Tony scrunches up bits of paper and tosses them with alarming accuracy at the assassin’s head. 

“Tony, stop that,” Steve says, his eyes darting nervously to the vein pulsing visibly on Bruce’s forehead. “Can we please just focus? Amora’s made contact with us.” 

That gets their attention. 

“She did what? Crazy bitch,” Clint says, popping a dollar into the newly imposed cuss-jar. (It’s been strategically placed closest to him.) 

“She contacted SHIELD by hacking into one of the security cameras. Basically, she says it’s most amusing that we have offered sanctuary to the Trickster and that she’d gladly take him out of our hands. Either that, or Baldr will remove him forcibly,” Steve summarises. 

“I care not for this. Loki stays with us. Her threats are weak! Her business has always been with me, of this I am sure. That she would torture my brother to gain my attention, to _lure_ me like an animal – I would have her head,” Thor proclaims loudly. “Let them both come! Mjölnir and I would see justice done!” 

“Whoa, chillax, brah,” Clint says, flapping his hands at the thunder god. 

“Thor, I understand that you would want to avenge your brother – ” 

“I saw what you did there,” Tony whispers to Clint. 

“ _But_ we do not kill, remember? We don’t kill unless absolutely necessary. And when it comes to Baldr, we most definitely do not kill. We can’t give a reason for war between Asgard and Earth,” Steve says firmly. 

Thor looks deeply disgruntled and it is only Natasha’s forceful hand on his bicep that stills him. 

“So what’s the plan, Cap?” 

“Well, the objective is simple – we’re to capture and then deport them both back to Asgard. What your people wanna do to them, according to the Director, is their business.” 

“So you wanna kill them, go ahead but we can’t while they’re on Earth, yeah?” Clint says flippantly. Steve worries his lower lip. 

“Thank you, Hawk. Essentially, that’s the boundaries,” Cap says. “If Loki is up to it, then we’ll have him lure the two in before we launch the ambush. Simple, really. As long as Amora is under the impression that we’re acquiescing willingly, there shouldn’t be any complications.” 

Simple, sure. 

There’s just the possibility of Amora being a paranoid bitch, with who knows what army under her sleeve. 

And then there’s just this other wee issue: 

“What makes you think Loki’s gonna just agree? I mean, he’ll probably think we’re going to backstab him. I hear PTSD patients don’t do too well with such triggers.” 

“Well, someone will have to talk to him, give it a shot,” Steve says meaningfully. 

And just like that, all eyes are on Tony and judging by the expressions that range from knowing to outright disgusted leering… 

“Who the fuck spilled the beans?”

 

–

 

Tony’s not really into indie. He loves music, he loves the distraction and in rare instances, he falls in love with the lyrics. For all that people expect him to be snooty and cultured about such things, Tony doesn’t have a _favourite_ musical genre, let alone a _favourite_ band or singer. 

Now, this particular song, he doesn’t actually like. But not too long ago, in a fit of spite, Pepper had conspired with Jarvis to infect his playlist at the workshop with songs by just _one_ group. To be honest, he was only angry with it for about a day, and the irritation thereafter had merely been to keep up appearances. The songs had actually grown on him after the second day. 

Standing before the door, now, with two litres of hot chocolate from a Spanish recipe and a bottle (not flask) of whiskey in his hands, Tony’s reminded of a line. 

 _There were nights in bars where I recall, your breath was courage laced with alcohol_. 

Isn’t that the story of his life. 

Tony braces himself and slips quietly in. 

Loki’s no longer in the hospital garb, but dressed in a forest green, crewneck jumper and a pair of dark sweatpants. He is cross-legged on the bed, the blanket pooled by his bare feet and he just sits there, staring vacantly at a point on the wall. 

He doesn’t even acknowledge Tony. 

The legs of his favourite chair drags against the floor in an annoying screech, entirely unintentional, mind you, but still Loki doesn’t so much as blink. Tony sets the hot chocolate by the bedside table and keeps the whiskey for himself. 

Tony pouts into the bottle. 

It’s half an hour (not that Tony’s _counting_ ) of silence, during which Tony keeps taking sips and depletes his courage-juice steadily and Loki continues on like a Greek sculpture, before someone speaks. 

“I know why you’re here,” Loki’s silky voice resounds in the room. “And the answer is ‘yes’.” 

“Yeah?” Tony coughs. 

“Yes. Don’t be a parrot, Stark.” 

“It’s Tony, remember?” he screws the cap back onto the bottle. “And how in the hell did you find out?” 

“Your woman was here a little while ago to present me with these… clothing,” Loki says impassively. 

“She’s my _assistant_ , kid,” Tony slurs just a little. “And you look tons better in them. Still waiflike, but I believe I’m doing my part with the hot chocolate, so it’s all good.” 

“I asked her what caused you and my brother to leave. It couldn’t have been kindness,” he says. 

The dejection surprises him. Tony wrecks his brain for the context and comes up with only one possibility. 

“Yeah, Cap called a meeting,” Tony answers. “I mean, no, what the heck, of course we _care_ about you, you insufferable reindeer. Even if it weren’t for the meeting, we’d still have given you time alone to lick your wounds and shit. Come _on_. I’ve been feeding your serotonin high on a daily basis – I _care_.” 

Loki turns a glare at him. 

“I don’t believe that Pepper would have just told you, though. You didn’t threaten her, didn’t do anything mean to her, did you? Because she’s just going to pass it on to me.” 

Loki _glowers_ at him. 

“No, she told me because she believed you would probably procrastinate and you’re really ‘a big baby’ when it comes to ‘feelings’,” Loki hisses. “One _wonders_ what she might mean by ‘feelings’, hm?” 

“Er,” Tony splutters. 

“If it is of any comfort, my son has made mention of this too.” 

Tony pinches himself. Loki looks as pained and uncomfortable as Tony feels. 

“I’m sorry he couldn’t stay.” 

Tony feels Loki’s eyes on him and for the most part, does his best to ignore the urge to lift his head. He doesn’t want to see the raw emotion reflected in them, not with Loki’s guard so shattered. Tony fusses with the label peeling from the side of the bottle. 

When Loki refuses to reply, he thinks, perhaps, he’s managed to piss the god off and Tony spares a moment to worry about this Pavlovian reaction to have to make things right, before he has no choice but to look up into Loki’s gaze. 

His expression is dead but for his eyes. (Always his eyes) They are so vividly green and soft around the edges. 

“Where… where is it that you wander to? When you drink?” Loki murmurs. Tony doesn’t realise how close they’ve gravitated towards each other until he feels cold fingertips on his jugular. 

“Where do _you_ go when you get that look on your face?” Tony counters, voice hoarse. 

“I asked first.” 

Tony snorts. “You wanna play this game, huh?” 

“It isn’t a game, Star – ” 

Tony leans away just a little, tutting. “Nuh-uh! _Tony_.” 

“Tony,” Loki concedes, with a sigh. It is a soft, cool caress against Tony’s cheek. “It isn’t a game.” 

“Why do you wanna know?” Tony’s stalling, he’s so bloody obvious, he feels like a blushing schoolgirl. But they’re on the threshold of something _more_ , something Tony cannot _label_ and it’s **freaking** him out. 

There’s a flicker to Loki’s eyes and Tony cannot look away. Against his better judgment, Tony helplessly leans in to brush their foreheads together. 

“Because I wish to follow you, when I, as you say, get that _look_ on my face,” Loki whispers, just touches the pads of his fingers against Tony’s cheek. 

 _Oh, fuck._  

Tony squeezes his eyes shut even as the words shrivel up and die in his throat. 

He tries again, “My head. I, uh – ” 

“I would follow,” Loki stays perfectly still, breathing softly. Just breathing. 

“It’s ironic but it’s quieter. There’s this tiny ass corner in my head that’s… just… quiet. When I drink.” 

Tony swallows thickly. 

“Then let me in.” 

Tony suppresses a groan. He forces open his eyes, half-lidded and mad in this fuckstorm of emotions he’s never had to deal with, not even with Pepper. 

Gently, so damn gently he’s surprising himself, Tony presses his lips to Loki’s and the small part of his brain that hasn’t short-circuited sends thanks for being seated. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand... all I can think of after completing this chapter is, "FINALLY." 
> 
> -snort- hopefully it'll give you, dear reader, the giggles.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony's never had too good a grasp on common sense when it came to danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On hindsight... I don't actually know if I'm really happy with this story but that aside, it's the only one so far for which the muse has stuck around long enough to see it's almost-completion. I'd just like to really, really thank every single one of you who's spent time reading this entire story and who's left such lovely, encouraging comments. Know that you always make my day, no matter how crappy. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter.
> 
> And, happy reading! <3

“So…,” Clint says with his lips all scrunched up looking like a pug, Tony thinks viciously to himself because he knows where this is going to lead to. “Are you seriously banging the reindeer?”

It’s just the three of them so far, sprawled in the conference room for the mission briefing – Natasha and her nail file, Clint and his fucking smirk, and… wonder of wonders, _Tony_ with his giant mug of coffee. They’ve done an admirable job of ignoring each other for the last fifteen minutes and it was actually _peaceful_ in spite of the maelstrom of shit churning inside Tony’s mind.

“Seriously,” Tony grunts, pushing his shades further up along his nose bridge. “Who the fuck told _you_? And for the record, there has been _no_ banging.”

“You just did,” Natasha answers blithely and it makes Clint’s smirk spread even wider. Stupid assassin brotherhood _schmuck_.

“Oh, fuck y – ” Tony starts, only to clamp his mouth shut at the lethal, arched eyebrow.

“If you needed confirmation, why the damned staring yesterday?”

Clint shrugs –  even his _shrug_ is smug. Asshole – and says, “Dunno. Seemed the thing to do. And it sure managed to ruffle your damn feathers.”

Tony grinds his teeth at the cackling.

“But honestly, what the _fuck_ , Stark. I owe Bruce fifty bucks now. I had faith in you, man. Trust you to do the stupidest shit ever – banging the unstable reindeer that threw you out a window? Is this part of the secret woo-Stark-manual?”

Tony ignores him, takes a long, long gulp of his jumbo-cappuccino instead.

“Pepper likes him, just so you know,” Natasha contributes in between buffing her nails. “We both agree the window thing had been a long time coming.”

“I’ve got abusive parents,” Tony whines to a bewildered Bruce who’d chosen that inopportune moment to amble into the room. Tony turns baleful eyes at him.

“Yo, Doc, here’s your dough,” Clint says loudly. Natasha takes the money and hands it placidly to Bruce. He stares at the notes and frowns, as if trying to recall what the fifty was for. And when he _does_ remember, his face stumbles comically from disbelief to repressed irritation.

“Tony?”

He leans back in his swivel chair. “What? You’re the one who bet on me.”

“Well,” Bruce murmurs. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah, everyone keeps saying that,” Tony says, shaking his head. “We haven’t even done anything yet.” This last tidbit, Tony only whispers under his breath. Sure, they’d basically made out like teenagers on a friggin’ hospital bed to fit the drama, but that was _it_.

“How did you find out, anyway?” Tony asks, because when it comes to Bruce, Tony genuinely likes to know. He’s got no secret, ninja interrogative methods, and given how Fury hasn’t busted his ass yet, Tony clings doggedly onto the belief that he _isn’t_ obvious.

“Erm, everyone else was staring during the meeting, so… I did some research and calculated the possibility.”

“You did your own _love calculator_ math?” Tony snorts a bit of coffee up his nose. Dammit.

“In a sense,” Bruce replies brazenly. “I came across some… ‘fanfiction’, I think they call it. It’s a little disturbing what our supporters find the time do, but it was helpful in the end, I guess. Thanks, Clint,” he says, waving the money with frankly terrifying indifference.

Tony has to mentally shake his head, because, _what the hell_ , people write stuff like that? And Tony swears he’s not going within a ten mile radius of such crap, because he’s _not_ voyeuristic, not one bit.

“What, you’re not gonna go green, then? ‘cause for a moment there, you looked like you were gonna.”

Bruce levels a disconcertingly serene expression on him and says, in his most soothing voice, “I’m telling _him_ there’s no point since you’d do what you want anyway, Tony. If you can get Loki to keep his mischief out of our way, then I don’t see how it’ll be any of our concern.”

Tony still finds it a tad weird when Bruce uses ‘our’ in conversation when he’s talking about himself.

“Oh, I’ll do my _best_ , Doctor,” a familiar, silky voice suddenly rings out.

All heads whip around to face the door to the conference room, where they find Steve and Thor escorting a deceptively calm Loki in pimped out handcuffs.

“There isn’t going to be any fucking male posturing in my briefing, got that?”

Ah, sweet Fury’s dulcet tones.

Steve gives Loki a small nudge and the god follows, fairly gliding across the room to seat himself on the opposite side of the circular table. Tony catches his eye as he passes and it might just be his imagination, but Tony thinks the cold, calculating gaze softens just for him.

 _Christ_ , mere kisses and Tony’s already turning into a damned sap.

 

–

 

Amora had given them until Saturday. Steve didn’t want to dwell on the fact that if anything were to happen, there’d be more significant damage given the spike in activity on a weekend. To err on the side of caution, Steve had forced multiple mock runs of the mission with the team, making sure that everybody knew exactly where they were supposed to be at precisely the right moment. It hadn’t helped at all that he’d harboured a terrible, terrible feeling the whole time.

Always strive for simplicity, he told himself – clear cut, uncluttered gameplays: rendezvous with the Enchantress and Baldr, perform the exchange, enter Thor the moment the exchange is made, perform the switch again, extract Loki from the site, engage in battle if necessary, capture and retreat.

On Saturday, Steve wakes up an hour later than usual, he manages to burn his toast despite having long mastered the modern-age contraption, and his hot chocolate coffee bubbles over in the microwave he’d used because the milk hadn’t been warm enough. He should have known then that it was going to be a crappy day.

He really should have.

On Saturday evening, Natasha and Steve escort Loki via helicopter to the rooftop of an abandoned skyscraper. They’d opted to reveal the Black Widow in all her glory as a gesture of goodwill, to show that their best assassin was _vulnerable_ for a given measure of vulnerability when it came to her. In truth, Clint camps out on a nearby office building, Tony fiddles with his latest invisibility modification to the suit, Bruce is hidden in the helicopter and Thor is just _somewhere_.

“Hey,” Tony says quietly when he’d been shoved the task of chaining Loki for the handover.

Loki lifts his head at the soft footfalls. He’s seated on the edge of the cot in one of the holding rooms. Loki rises to his full height in one smooth motion. The scarring seems better now, less raised and angry-looking.

Tony shuffles his weight where he stands, restless and filled with more than a little dread. With a sigh, he reveals the same pair of cuffs they’d used on the Trickster the first time he’d dealt a number on Earth. He watches Loki’s face shut down, the lines of his body stiffening. His only tell is the way his skin becomes impossibly paler.

Loki puts his wrists together and offers them up. The cuffs snick shut and tighten themselves until they are snug around his bony wrists. Tony notices the poorly suppressed twitching to long, elegant fingers – it’s all Loki can do not to tug and futilely test the integrity of the restraints.

“You alright?” It’s a stupid question, but one Tony feels compelled to ask anyway. Loki’s hunched in on himself with a deep frown marring his pretty face. His breathing turns shallow and the answer’s bloody obvious, actually.

“No,” he chokes out gruffly. “No, I’m not.”

Loki lifts his eyes to meet Tony’s and it’s a _thing_ of Loki’s, it’s staggering and it undoes Tony to be the singular, sudden and violent focus of the god’s attention. Grey-green eyes are glistening and wild and _fuck_ if Tony doesn’t get lost in them.

“Hey, hey,” he gushes, still conscientiously keeping a distance from the Trickster. “Listen to me, huh. Listen to my voice, okay? Get out of that fucking place, just listen to me. Pay attention to my voice.”

Loki swallows thickly, the trembling soothed just a little. “I am,” he says, voice wet. “It’s… it’s annoying.”

Tony cracks a strained grin, he knows, he can feel the un-cooperative muscles. “Bullshit. You love my voice.”

“No,” Loki snipes back, eyelids fluttering shut. “No, I distinctly remember you loving _mine_.”

Tony absently runs his fingers through ink black hair, smoothing out the soft tangles.

“It’s a simple procedure. We’ve both run through the damn thing so many times with the gang – yeah, Cap’s a thorough pain sometimes. Just two simple handovers, huh. Just two, and then I’ll yank you the hell out of these cuffs and we’ll hightail from those two jackasses. Your big brother’s gonna give them a hell of a thumping either way, y’know? For you. It’ll  be awesome. I’ll bring out the popcorn and we’ll catch the live feed,” Tony rambles softly.

“It’ll be alright,” Loki says and Tony doesn’t really know if it’s a question or a reaffirmation.

“Hell yeah.”

“Do you promise?”

The simple, innocent question is one of the last things Tony ever thought he’d hear from Loki. It made him sound so small, too vulnerable for all that armour, too frightened for that alluring aggression and brilliant insanity. But then again, he never thought he’d see him mope, let alone _kiss_ the guy.

“Yeah, yeah I promise. We’re not gonna let anyone get you.”

(Famous last words, Tony thinks darkly to himself just a few hours later.)

 

–

 

At twenty-one hundred hours, Amora materializes alongside an unexceptional – sure, he’s as tall as any Asgardian, but otherwise bland – man. He’s burly and wrapped in shades of purple and fur, his features are commonplace and meaty, his eyes shaded by a spherical, metal helmet and Tony _loathes_ him on the spot. And that’s wholly on appearance alone; he hasn’t even begun on the dull, ogre incompetence the god is exuding in disgusting waves. Tony’s not going to lie, he’s a complete snob when it comes to intelligence and an elitist through and through.

And Baldr… Baldr, the fucker who tortured and quite possibly fucked Loki’s head up even more than it’d already been, is just an affront to all senses.

“Sir, I would suggest returning to a crouch and storing your missiles for later. I believe the Captain has a very detailed plan for this operation.”

Tony doesn’t get a chance to deliver his positively waspish retort.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we? Where’s his _brother_? I find it hard to believe he’d just let you lot surrender the jötunn filth to us just like that.”

Cynical bitch.

“He’s back at base. The rest are stalling him,” Steve says with the right amount of impatience and discomfort. Tony knows it’s not entirely an act.

Amora arches an eyebrow. Behind her, Baldr makes a show of clenching his fists.

“You must want this over with most quickly, then, Captain,” she remarks, her voice dripping with poison.

“That would be appreciated, yes.”

Oh, Steve. Bless your unnecessarily good manners.

Tony watches the exchange like a hawk – no pun intended, Clint. Loki’s stats are still normal, no signs of hyperventilation or spikes in adrenaline levels and Tony counts it as a win. He watches Amora pace to and fro, as if stalking a prey, eyes fixated on Loki. Beside her, Baldr grows impatient.

“Sir, picking up traces of magic on the Enchantress.”

“What, she’s spellcasting?”

“Look at me, Laufeyson,” Tony hears her hiss.

Naturally, Loki doesn’t. Gagged by the titanium mouth-guard and restrained by the magic-suppressing cuffs, Loki’s still defiant to the end. Honestly, though, it’s really kind of silly to expect the god to obey such an order; what made her think that Loki would listen to _her_?

“Team, countdown in three…”

“Give him to me,” Amora snarls, most unladylike.

“Two…”

“ _Now!_ ”

“One.”

Steve shoves Loki over brusquely and into the vice grip of Baldr, then jumps back just in time before there is a blinding, startling streak of lightning that destroys the concrete two paces in front of Amora. The electricity crackles, fizzes in the air, and in the clearing wisps of smoke, Thor stands with Mjölnir gripped tight in his fist.

Tony throws the boosters into full thrust capacity, rocketing himself off his perch. The outline of Loki blinks blue on the HUD and he’s got scant seconds to reach him after Thor smashes the Enchantress aside.

That is, if the plan works out to the last second.

Which it doesn’t.

Naturally. ( _Fucking_ hell.)

Thor raises the hammer and swings it like it’s nothing more than a toy as a look of surprise begins to bloom on Amora’s face. Tony splits his attention between Loki and Thor and there’s something like smug satisfaction swelling in Tony’s chest. And of course, that’s when everything decides to take that moment to go to hell.

The startled widening of blue eyes, and shocked parting of lips abruptly morphs into a sadistic little _smirk_ that stutters the smooth swing of Thor’s arm. In that fraction of a heartbeat, there’s a shimmer in the space directly behind the thunder god and it’s all Jarvis can do to ~~shriek~~ announce the Executioner’s presence before the rogue god all but yanks Thor away from Amora.

Tony throws his weight back to halt his flight path and he just _hovers_ in the air because _what the flying fuck_ –

The Enchantress straightens herself and looks directly at Tony with something too close to leering with her narrowed eyes, her smirk smug as sin. She doesn’t give the Avengers a chance – with inhuman speed, she whirls on Loki and presses against his temple with her fingertips. Loki’s eyes fly wide open, glowing red and his face contorts unequivocally in agony. And Tony knows, knows all too bloody well that if it weren’t for the gag, Loki’s screams would be ringing in his ears.

“Go,” Amora barks at Baldr, the Æsir messing with a hugeass knife he’d produced from who the hell knew where. The god smiles viciously and grabs Loki’s convulsing body like a ragdoll and just vanishes with a wave of Amora’s hand.

Oh, how Tony fucking loathes witches. Stupid hand-waving-flowery-bullshit.

“No. No, no, NO! Fuck!” Tony shouts into the comm.

Thor lets out a very, very pissed off roar and despite being in a full body lock, he calls down an onslaught of lightning that sears the ground and charges the air all around him. The clouds begin to roll overhead, charcoal grey in the night; the wind starts to pick up, violent and angry and the freak weather is just one ominous shitstorm waiting to happen.

Amora raises her hands and through the howling winds, Tony hears the creak and whine of metal as it bends. Suddenly, there are multiple lights flashing on the HUD.

“Caaaaaap!” Clint calls in.

“I know, I know,” Steve yells back. Amora’s played this card before, it’s nothing new, but that doesn’t stop it from being just as a much a pain in the ass as before. Giant billboards have contorted and compressed themselves into a rough, humanoid form, and with every metallic snap in the wind, the giant puppets converge ever closer to the abandoned skyscraper. “Doc, it’s time to let him have his fun! Natasha, I need you on the Quinjet with Clint. Take the Pepsi commercial! I’m gonna help Thor and we’ll deal with – ”

Tony lowers the volume on the comm channel and overrides the blinking targets on the HUD.

“Jarvis!”

“I’ve already begun tracking the tracer on the cuffs, Sir.”

“Good boy. And?”

“Same location as the first. Bergen, Sir.”

“Seriously? That’s fucking seven hours away,” Tony growls, blitzing through the math and all the horrible, horrible possibilities that could happen in that time. _Fucking_ magic.

“You ought to hurry, Stark!”

Tony whips his attention to Amora. Cap’s managed to dislodge Thor from the Enchantress’ boytoy and the four of them are engaged in their routine battle – lots of lightning, Shakespearean taunting (by Thor), cackling and everybody’s zen-like patience for the cheesiness.

“Baldr means to kill him this time. Slowly, mayhap, but it will be _most_ definitive for Loki,” Amora says jauntily, and damn if Tony would reduce her to a smear on the ground with napalm if not for the fucking agreement.

“Tony!” Cap’s tinny voice shouts at him through the channel he’d reduced the volume of.

“He’s in Bergen.” That’s all Tony says before fixing a flight route and launching into autopilot.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing? You’re skipping out on us?” Clint says into the comm. “He’s on the want list, Stark! You’re not even boning the dude!”

“Clint,” Natasha calls out, an unexpected warning clear in her voice.

“No, ‘tasha. Seriously.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut, lets the thrumming that courses through the suit sweep his mind away. But Clint isn’t shutting up. No, his voice is getting shriller and even more grating than Tony would’ve thought possible.

“He’s _nothing_ , you asshole! Y’hear me?”

Tony had rather been hoping to avoid this. Because he’s not quite ready to admit it out loud, not to himself and not in front of the whole damn class. He might have stumbled upon the realization whilst watching himself stupid with Superman cartoons and he might have more or less accepted it a couple of hours ago, but he wasn’t supposed to have to profess it to _anybody_.

Trust Clint to wrangle it out of him.

“Oi! Answer me, you gigantic son of a – ”

“Shut up, Clint, just _shut the fuck up_. He’s ME, alright? He’s not nothing, he’s _me_!” Tony bellows. “He’s me before I met Pepper, before I met Cap, before I got into this walking disaster, dysfunctional family of ours. The only damn difference is that I _have_ this. I have had _help_. Loki – Loki is me, what, two, three decades ago. _Christ_. _Fuck_. Loki is me before I managed to pull my ass out of the shithole I’d dug myself into, Loki is me being fucked over all my life and not knowing any better because he’s had to _deal_ all on his fucking own.”

Tony doesn’t know what to do with the insanely inappropriate, manic laughter bubbling up in his chest.

“Loki is me,” Tony croaks, his voice raspy and hoarse from all the shouting. “He’s what I was and godfuckingdammit if I’m going to just sit here and watch him fuck himself over even more when the bitch’s made him lose his shit. So, there. That good enough for you, featherbrain?” What Tony chooses not add is that even though the Avengers have done a lot to rein in his staggering lack of self-preservation and impulse control, most days, Tony’s still treading the careful edge that dips into a long slide into the dark, mottled shithole in his mind. That most days, he’s a hair trigger away from the particular brand of self-destructive insanity.

“Go get him, Tony. We can handle it here,” Cap says and his voice is tellingly watery.

“Are – Are you crying, Cap?” Tony has to ask because he may have just spouted _feelings_ but he’s still a dick.

“Shut up, Tony.”

“Hurt but don’t kill,” Natasha offers solemnly, like it’s the peacekeeping mantra of SHIELD. “Don’t miss, Tony.”

Tony doesn’t actually expect a response from Clint, because after the yelling, Tony knows the guy’s probably sulking. But what he really hadn’t been ready for was the unmistakable voice cutting through all the background noise.

“Return my brother safely, Tony Stark. Please.”

As a rule, because of the way ‘technology isn’t amiable to me, my friends’, communication devices aren’t really part of the god’s standard battle gear. He’d settle for remembering the strategy, and noting body cues from the rest. But judging by the way Thor’s uncharacteristically humbled and morose, Tony’d have to say that his entire rant hadn’t been lost on the thunder god and if Tony didn’t know any better, he’d bet Natasha had a hand in hurling an earpiece at the blonde when Tony had begun his stupid speech.

Taking a deep breath because there’s nothing else for it, Tony says, “Yeah, big guy. I’m on it.”

 

–

 

The first time Tony’d taken the suit to Bergen, he’d pushed the flight time down to four hours because he’d been impatient. As much as he adored his armour, Tony had almost gone stir crazy from remaining in just one position for so long.

“Jarvis, can you get an audio tap on the cabin?”

“Just… barely, Sir. Connecting now.”

Tony waits with poorly restrained anxiety and listens hard. There’s static for the most part, lots of annoying static before the sound pans out into silence. He tells Jarvis to raise the volume steadily. When it’s nearly three quarters of the way to the maximum, Tony picks out muffled voices. At seven-eighths of the volume control, the sound sharpens.

Tony makes the flight in two hours.

 

–

 

 _His mouth is parched. He tries to ask where he is, but the sound comes out differently. It sounds so wrong to his ears._

_He thinks and thinks and thinks and he remembers why his throat feels so raw. Then he remembers the pain. So, so much pain – like fire scorching his skin, burning and stripping away flesh, licking at the bone. So, so much frightful pain – like the savage sting of an old, oiled whip against his back, shredding and bleeding until leather and flesh are smeared in blood and oil._

_(He’s not twenty and his father is displeased with his prank. It is his punishment to bear, as a prince need learn fairness and empathy.)_

_Something’s dripping on his face, he cannot open his eyes. Something’s pinning his arms, he cannot move them. He cannot feel his legs._

_He remembers the pain, and he thinks it ought to still be there. Or has his body forgotten it, has it become desensitized? It would be a mercy, most certainly. He hopes it is so._

_“ **Can you not feel it anymore, Lie-Smith? That won’t do. No, no, no.** ”_

_How does the voice_ know _of his thoughts?_

 **_“A prince must know pain to know his people. A prince must know pain to know what he has wrought to his people. A prince must know pain to repent his betrayal.”_ ** ****

_It returns like the breaking of a dam, assaulting his senses and stealing his breath. He would scream, he tries, he would scream. His voice has cracked, and there is nothing left to sound. The pain is excruciating and it denies the power that runs through his veins. He cannot feel his magic, he cannot root himself and the pain is excruciating._

_He whimpers and keens and it is pathetic to his ears._

**_“Loki Laufeyson, the one who has tricked us all, the one who would dare trick the Allfather and bring ruin to his brothers and sisters. Loki Laufeyson, the filthy whoreson of a jötunn_**   ** _now brought to justice. It is pittance to all that has been lost, but at the least I would your worthless blood be spilled.”_**

 _He remembers._

_Let him beg for mercy._

_He remembers._

 

–

 

This is how it goes:

Tony doesn’t care about stealth.

The odds are that the god already knows somebody is likely to be hunting down his sorry ass, and that it’s just a matter of time. He’s sure with the superior hearing of all Asgardians, it doesn’t mean much even if he lowers the thrust capacity or kills it completely – it’s still going to be obnoxiously loud.

No, Tony doesn’t give a fuck about stealth.

He does a thermal scan of the cabin and smashes himself down into the underground chamber. Loki registers instantly on his HUD, still in the cuffs and strapped to the same examination table. The mouthpiece is removed if only for the sickfuck to hear Loki’s screams. He gives a brief once over and catalogues the lacerations and skinned segments of Loki’s hands and arms with a curse.

“Hey! Rise and shine, Bambi,” Tony says loudly as he fires at the cuffs.

“YOU CANNOT HAVE HIM, MORTAL! HE MUST PAY, HE MUST – ”

Tony wants desperately to roll his eyes at the clichéd, overconfident asshole rant. It’s something of a pity that Asgard lacks the long history of films, because it’s really rather educational in Tony’s far from unjaundiced opinion. If they’d just catch a classic movie or two, they’d _know_ that ranting does _nothing_ but provide an opening for the good guys. Or, in this case, Tony will just refer to Loki as ‘the victim’.

Before he can tackle Baldr to the ground or preferably shoot something at him, there is a blue hand that strikes out viper-fast at the god’s thick neck.

With the cuffs undone, magic floods back into Loki’s body and it overcompensates. Loki is not pale or bleeding, he’s shimmering and cobalt blue. The wounds are deep cracks and discoloured patches on the ribbed, rune-marked skin, but everything is secondary to the unadulterated rage in startling, crimson eyes.

Tony is aware of the no kill-rule, but it’s almost broken before Tony can even blink.

Loki squeezes Baldr’s neck and lifts him off his feet in a display of strength his thin, wiry body has so blatantly belied. Where Loki’s hand meets with the god’s flesh, Tony sees wisps of smoke coiling lazily in the air. He realises belatedly the skin’s not burning, but freezing – mere contact with Loki’s skin was causing severe frostbite.

“Holy shit,” Tony mutters half in awe.

Baldr attempts to kick himself out of the stranglehold, but Loki is having none of it. Even weakened, Loki is soaring high on adrenaline and a cumulated burst of magic and he’s _infallible_. With horrifying ease, Loki slams Baldr into the wall and with his free hand, grabs hold of one leg. There is a sickening crack that fills the stunned silence.

Baldr tries to scream his agony, but Loki chokes it off.

“Loki, listen to me,” Tony says quietly. “That’s enough, Bambi.”

It isn’t a surprise that Loki ignores him. The Trickster snaps the other leg at the kneecap and braces his weight against the body shoved against the wall. Tony can hear his short, wheezing pants.

Loki wobbles as he straightens his back, turns his free hand into a spire of ice and spears it through Baldr’s left shoulder.

Tony is across the room and gripping Loki’s clothed arm before he is even conscious of it.

“Listen to my voice, remember? _Listen_ to my voice, Loki. You _cannot_ kill him,” he says firmly.

Whatever it is twisting and burning behind Loki’s glowing crimson eyes, it isn’t human anymore. Tony wonders if he’ll ever get tired of this, of being the rare witness to the terrifyingly captivating madness that lurks within Loki, that which unravels him into a vengeful angel of chaos. Because the truth is, Tony thinks Loki is most beautiful when he’s forgotten himself, when he dances through the battlefield in swirling whirls of ephemeral power the likes of which nobody has ever truly seen.

And unsurprisingly, the answer is a resounding no. 

Loki stares at him, and for the few moments where there is no visible recognition of whatever estranged friendship it is that exists between them or even a shred of humanity in those wild eyes, Tony thinks he’s reminded of what fear feels like. 

(But Tony’s never had nowhere near enough common sense to back off.) 

Unceremoniously, Loki releases his vice grip on Baldr, and neither of them really cares about the way the body slumps heavily into a heap. He’s still breathing, and that’s all that matters to Tony – he’s got more important things to worry about. 

“Hey,” Tony says gently, still wary. 

Loki’s eyes never leave his as he begins to come down from the high. The blue skin slowly fades away into the usual pale beige Tony’s used to seeing and the red irises are dull green again after a drawn blink. 

“Hey,” Tony repeats. “We’re done now, okay? We’re done. You’re gonna be okay. Don’t listen to what the mofo told you, right? Right? Stay with me here, Bambi, come on. Say it with me, ‘the mofo is _wrong_ ’ – ” 

“He was wrong about many things,” Loki finally says, but his voice sounds different, it sounds dead to Tony. 

“Yeah, that’s my reindeer – ” 

“But he was right about _one_ thing.” 

Tony has a distinctly bad feeling about this. “Yeah? What’s that?” 

“We do not change.” 

Tony huffs in exasperation. “Bullshit. I’ve changed, sorta. And you’re _not_ the Loki who caused the end of the world. Look around you, Bambi. Earth’s still standing, Thor’s still smacking the Executioner around – ” 

“Do not _lie_ ,” Loki suddenly snarls. “You have not changed, Stark. You _know_ you haven’t. Not _truly_.” 

Tony frowns and his protest is on the tip of his tongue, but Loki cuts him off at the pass. 

“The fundamentals _do not change_. The _core_ never changes,” Loki hisses, eyes narrowed. “And Baldr is correct about this – I will never stop being the worthless, unwanted spawn of a race I was brought up to hate.” 

“Loki, he’s been fucking with your head. Whatever it is, it does not have to _define_ you – ” 

“Our wills and fates do so contrary run. That our devices still are overthrown; our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own,” Loki says faintly. He steps away from Tony, away until he is far from reach, and then he lowers his head. His pretty eyes flutter close and a look of complete vulnerability sweeps across his face; anguish, despair and resignation. 

Tony entertains the mad notion of flipping open his mask so that Loki _knows_ , so that Loki can see that Tony’s here, looking right at him. _Seeing_ him. 

The emotions are shuttered too quickly, the face erased into a blank canvas once again. 

“So, I will submit to all that your people have so graciously recorded of me. And I shall be as the world has come to expect,” he says vacantly. 

Then, Loki is gone. 

Tony blinks rapidly and just suddenly realises he’s been barely breathing for some stupid reason. 

“Don’t fucking quote Shakespeare at me,” he gasps miserably at nobody. Tony eyes the pathetic heap that is Baldr and wants almost desperately to kick it. 

Tony grinds his teeth. 

“Fucking magic.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... that's that for now... I guess it's big enough a hint, but I'll probably be raising the rating to an 'E' for the next chapter. (that is if I don't chicken the hell out) Also, there's just one last chapter and an epilogue which I may or may not lump together into one big chappie. So... yeah. Tis almost done :D till next time!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony is such a girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I was wrong, evidently. I couldn't finish this story in a single chapter because the whole thingamabob demanded more than 6000 words and lumping more together would've just resulted in a mammoth of a chapter that just doesn't sit well with me.
> 
> A BIG THANK YOU to all readers and to those who took the time to leave me such encouraging comments. 
> 
> Happy reading, darlings <3

There is no sound when it hits the glass. 

It is the height of winter, and there is rain. The little droplets are infinitesimal and small, unassuming and overwhelming, plump and perfect tear drops as they fall from the clouds. They plummet at an alarming rate, multiplying in number, until they kiss the unyielding wall of glass in an eruption of water. They leave smears on the surface, traces of their existence, equally transparent – though there are imperfections, an imbalance in concentration that defines its boundaries. Each droplet ceases to live and their death intertwines with the next until a smear bleeds into a river. There is no sound when they hit the glass, nothing for anyone to acknowledge lest they _see_ with their eyes, and it is a tragedy. 

But. 

Droplets do not live; they never have. 

There is no sound when it hits the glass. 

And Tony goes on moping with all the drugdery of a heartbroken tween. 

“ _Mister_ Stark, I am going to have to ask you to stop making eyes at the window, and to channel that _amazing_ concentration on our little meeting instead.” 

Tony huffs with a despondency only ever seen in lovesick teenage girls. 

“Stark, I have hauled your brooding ass into my office, on a _Sunday_ no less, for a meeting. Which means, quite fucking obviously, that it’s _important_ because I have a long, long ass list of other things I’d rather be doing than share the same breathing space with your sulking, angsty ass.” 

“Yes, Dear?” Tony drawls half-heartedly, still slumped over in his leather armchair. 

“Do you see this, _Mister_ Stark?” Fury asks, gesturing pointedly at his eye patch. “ _Do_ you see this?” 

“Er, yeah,” Tony says, though his tone very much suggests he’d rather have said ‘ _Duh_ ’. 

“Do you think that I am _blind_ , son? Because – ” Fury does that sarcastic chuckle of his. “let me tell you somethin’, this here patch doesn’t make me _blind_ , it makes me fucking _all-seeing_ because you assholes _think_ it makes me blind.” 

To emphasize his point, the Director tilts his head just so and looms much too close for Tony’s comfort. 

“I have _known_ since before _you’d_ known. I have _known_ from the moment you two idjits spoke, before that walking costume-party even decided to do the world a favor and fling your arrogant ass out the damn window,” Fury leans his weight on his right arm, eyebrows quirked and offending finger jabbing. “You’re reckless, _obnoxious_ , infuriating, self-destructive ‘cause you hate yourself, but you’re sure as hell egotistical enough to _love_ your damned fool self at the same fucking time. So, when that little pain in the ass comes along, and it’s like looking at the damn mirror, of course he’ll catch your damn interest.” 

Tony perks up, feeling through the fog that he ought to be defending himself. 

“Don’t interrupt me,” Fury bludgeons on with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You two morons kept the chatting up during all his little fits, and you realized what a bumbling bag of crazy he is with his _goddamn_ issues and his annoying supersmarts.” 

“Hey – ” 

“ _Shut up,_ ” Fury barks. “I didn't say shit at the start because I thought to myself, 'Stark is one dumbass, egotistical sonuvabitch, but he's supposed to be a _genius,_ bastard ought to know better'. But I underestimated you. Y’know that? I underestimated your ability to do stupid shit like actually fraternizing with the damn God of Lies. Are you that fucked over in there, Stark? Huh? Are you? Do you think he won’t just pop that glowing balloon in your chest like a bubble when you two are sucking each other’s face off? Did that ever occur to you, huh?” 

Tony squints at Fury. 

“Are you _worried_ about me? You’re _actually_ worried? You’re not actually harping on the fraternization bit. Natasha thought you were going to have her assassinate me,” Tony says. 

"You're not worth the damn effort," Fury snaps. 

Tony tip-taps against the arc reactor, a bastardized rendition of that AC-DC song stuck in his head, and draws a deep breath. 

"This - you're not going to tell me this is some sort of roundabout _caretaking_ from some unrequited love you had going on for my _dad_ , are you? Please tell me it isn't," Tony curls away. "Because stuff like that _stays_ in storybooks, Fury." 

"I should throw you in the damn psych ward," the Director snarls. 

"What? For seeing links between books and real life? Seriously? We work at SHIELD, our _lives_ are fucking fairytales," Tony quips. 

"Not for much longer if you keep up with your piss-poor decision making. There are _policies_ for a reason, smart ass. Now I know that may be a difficult concept for you to process, which is why your sorry ass is glued to that damn chair, but we _do_ _not_ fraternize because shit gets complicated and your _team_ gets _compromised_!" 

"Yeah, well, the damn reindeer high-tailed the hell outta there. It's all fucking moot, anyway!" Tony cries, riding on an alcohol daze and too little sleep. "You didn't see his crazy eyes, those fucking pretty things. He's probably gone and killed himself doing something stupid by now." 

"Gee, don't that sound fucking familiar," Fury groused, thoroughly unimpressed with the hormonal outburst. "Ain't that a fucking match made in heaven. Stop embarrassing yourself. What I wanna know is what the fuck you're planning on doing when he shows up again." 

"How do you know he's gonna - " 

"Because crazy bitches like him don't die easy, they're always gonna come back. Now, answer the damn question, Stark." 

Tony gapes at Fury, slack-jawed and speechless for the first time in a long, long while. 

"I don't know." 

Fury leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers. "Not good enough." 

"Wha - I'm serious. I don't _know_. I don't even know what the hell was going on between us, okay? Geez." 

"Oh, I know you have _some_ idea, Stark," Fury says. "So, I'm going to spare us both the waiting and I'm gonna tell you what _I_ think you're gonna do."

Tony desperately wants a drink. 

"I think you're gonna be a stubborn bastard, and you're gonna continue your little _thing_ with him. And you'll try to be discrete about it, because we'll have had this here conversation and you'll know what I'll do if, no, _when_ I find out. And when you're out on the field again, you two are gonna try _not_ to kill each other and you'll have bitchfits when he seriously hurts one of your _teammates_. And then one day, he's gonna go ballistic and you're gonna find yourself at a motherfucking crossroad. You're either gonna have to side with his crazy ass, and whatever fucked up, overblown plan of his to destroy to the world or stick to your goddamn _family;_ your band of superbrothers and kill, maim - _whatever_ the nutjob and there's gonna be a fuckton of collateral damage because your damn feelings will get in the damn way!" 

Fury slams his hands down on the table, and Tony actually jumps in his seat. He wonders if there'll be any point in denying or saying otherwise once the Director says what Tony knows with unwanted certainty he's going to say. 

"And you know something, Stark?" Fury says, voice low and dangerous. "I think when that time comes, you're gonna say yes to _him_."

 

-

 

When Pepper had finally caved under the relentless flirting and mad overtures, and they'd _finally_ been together, she remembers being happy at the start. She remembers how it felt like to be swept up in his stunning propensity to love, to realise how easily they slotted into each other's lives after so many years, no matter how big a pain in the neck he could still be when it came to work. When he'd skip out on meetings, or reaffirm his title as king of procrastination of all things administrative, Pepper would find herself huffing in _fond_ exasperation. _Fond_. 

She remembers being happy, waking up to that groggy smile, to the sunlight playing across his stubbled face and knowing that regardless of how he might flirt with others, he was _hers_ entirely. Because, as she found, when Tony decided to play for keeps, he threw himself into it, just as he did with his brainchild and the Avengers project. 

He threw himself into it with an intensity and possessiveness that Pepper would eventually find overwhelming. 

In some ways, she thinks that that had been the beginning of the end, that her inability to get past thinking of it as 'overwhelming' had jeopardized everything. She's a little ashamed, maybe, but it'd truthfully taken her by surprise at the time. For all that she was so familiar with Tony's crappy, horrifying childhood, his overcompensation as an adult wasn't something she'd been prepared for. It really wasn't a fault on his part, not really. And though she might have blamed herself after, the truth was that the blame fell on neither of them.

Tony loved too hard, clung too hard when it mattered, and Pepper just wasn't able to handle that. It's who they are, nothing more. 

The months after had been tense, to the say the least. Pepper could read Tony well enough to know most of his tells, enough to know that as unexpected as it was, she'd hurt him more than anyone might have guessed. He hid it pretty well, naturally, with the steady return to drinking and sporadic flares of astonishing recklessness. 

She'd hated herself then for the thought that she might have wrecked that already fractured heart of his just that bit more when all she has ever wanted was for Tony to understand what it was to be 'happy'. 

Even if it meant fighting for a certain temperamental, equally self-destructive Norse god. 

"Jarvis?" 

"Mister Stark is in the kitchen, Miss Potts." 

"Oh god... has he been drinking?" 

"Not since the last bottle before the meeting with the Director. I do believe he has taken to working his way through the different tubs of ice cream Mister Barton had purchased for the week." 

"Oh god," she mutters to herself, stiletto heel clicking away. 

Pepper does indeed find Tony spread eagle on the countertop, a tub of hazelnut chocolate fudge balancing atop the flat surface of the arc reactor. She straightens her back, squares her shoulders as if for war, and stalks over with a determined frown. Without warning, she yanks the spoon from his mouth. 

Tony starts badly, flailing at the violent disappearance of his chew toy, and then flailing again to right the startled tub of ice cream. 

He takes one look at Pepper and immediately scrambles off the table. 

"No. No, no, no. We already _had_ The Conversation. We already had it and then Steve pounced it on me too, so we are _not_ going through this again," Tony says with feeling. Because when it came to The Conversation, Tony had _very_ strong feelings. 

"Get back here, Tony. Sit down and _shut up_. I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen and I'm even going to be kind enough to overlook the fact that I had to find out about all this from _Natasha_ ," Pepper hisses. 

"Well, yeah, it'd be Natasha. You're running Stark Industries and you're sleeping with her. Who else would you hear it fr - " 

" _TONY._ " 

He makes a face at her, but slides reluctantly onto a bar stool, fingers worrying furiously away at the hem of his Iron Man tee. 

Pepper clears her throat. "Tony, you know that I love you." 

He blinks. 

"You're insufferable, incorrigible, stubborn and _really_ , a first rate asshole. But I love you all the same." 

"Er - " 

"No talking!" 

Tony flaps his hands at her, uncomfortably confused. 

"What I'm trying to say, Tony," Pepper concedes her tablet and folders and leaves them on the table. She's sorely tempted to yank at her hair. "Is that all I want is for you to be happy." 

"And I need to _know_ , Tony. I need to know if he's worth it. I heard about the meeting with Fury, and I can guess pretty well what he had to say to you. But I'm asking you now to ignore all of that. Ignore his threats and everything else and tell me," Pepper says fiercely and grabs Tony's face in her palms. "Is he worth it?" 

Tony stares right back into searching blue eyes. He struggles to find the words. 

"Pep..." He swallows thickly. "Pep, I don't know. I don't fucking _know_." 

Absently, Pepper pats his cheeks. "Think it through, Tony. Sound it out to me. Because I need to know before I go storming into the Director's office for a negotiation." 

"Wha - negotiation? Nevermind. I just... all I know is that I wanna help him. I don't wanna make him _good_ or make him a convert and a powerpuff girl or whatever because they're all just unnecessary labels. We're all dangerous, we're all overpowered and just a simple flip from superhero to supervillain. So, no, I don't _care_ that he's got that status, I don't _care_ that he's on the blacklist. I just want to give him a chance like I was given, and I wanna help him. And yeah, if he still wants to go on blowing shit up and taking the piss, then have at it. But not for the reasons he's been doing them for. He's... he's _more_ , Pep. He's _more_ but nobody sees that." 

Tony flashes a mirthless grin, not caring if it comes out crooked and just _wrong_. 

"You're asking me if he's worth fighting for," Tony says carefully. "I think it'll be worth it as long as I get the chance to try and make him live for himself, do stuff for _himself_. Even if it means beating the crap out of us or terrorizing Manhattan with a giant, talking apple for shits and giggles. At least it'd be for _his_ shits and giggles and not some twisted need for attention, to play on everyone else's expectations of him." 

Pepper's lower lip quibbles. Tony's eyes widen in horror and he can't help but lean away. 

"Okay," she says, voice all wobbly and wet. This, Tony reminds himself, is why it ought to be taboo to talk about feelings. Ngh. 

"Okay?" 

"Okay. If you're sure, Tony. Then, okay. I'll go find Fury now," Pepper says, patting Tony's arm repeatedly. She turns on her heel and putters away, dainty fingers pressed against her lips to stem the tide of emotion. 

_Oh God._

 

-

 

As it turns out, Loki does come back. Just as Fury had predicted, it hadn't so much been an 'if' as a 'when'. 

And _'when'_ turned out to be at a terribly, terribly ungodly hour. 

In retrospect, though, it didn't fucking matter. 

Tony inches himself awake to the sense that something cosmically unjust has occurred. 

There's something flashing incessantly at his pillow smothered face, turning his darkened vision behind closed lids bright red every few annoying seconds. He's hopelessly awake now, not fully, but enough that it'll take at least an hour of lying still like a log before he can fall back asleep. Tony wants to hit something. 

"Sir. _Sir!_ " 

"Wha. duh. farg, Jarvis?" He moans into the pillow, eyes still squeezed shut. 

"Sir, there are erratic traces of Loki's magic flaring. I thought it prudent to inform you that you will have exactly thirty, oh, no, _twenty_ seconds to his arrival - " 

" _Jarvis_?" Tony squawks, jolting upright in a swirl of bed linens and an impressive case of bed hair. " _Fwha-?_ " 

"I did warn you, Sir," is all the AI has to say before the room is bathed in a warm light and there, standing some distance from the foot of Tony's bed, is a figure enshrouded in harsh shadows and faded lines. 

"Tony," a voice sing-songs. 

Tony scrubs furiously at his grimy eyes and blurts, "Loki?" 

There's a choked sort of giggle, strangled and hysterical for a reply, and when Tony's vision swims into focus, he's gobsmacked by what he sees. Loki's wavering on his feet, his leathers shredded and torn. And where they are just _missing_ in places entirely, the pale skin is covered in blood, dried and fresh over a sickening array of bruises and open wounds. 

Tony flings away the blankets and stumbles off the bed. Loki watches his every move with wide, manic eyes, pupils blown and skittish. He cracks a crooked, mirthless grin just as Tony reaches him in time for his legs to cave. Tony's there to break his fall, but it doesn't stop Loki from laughing, grinning so hard he's split open the cut on his lip as he thuds to the ground. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. _Christ._ What the fuck happened to you. _Jesus,_ " Tony splutters, hands running slick with blood as his fingers fumble all over Loki, searching for the injuries, taking in too many. Tony's certain there're several broken ribs from the impressive discoloration to Loki's chest but when he grazes gingerly over it, it seems to be on the mend. There are stab wounds littering his shoulder and torso, some healed and pink, others new and bleeding sluggishly. Tony's frantic when he turns his attention to Loki's face. 

The dark circles under his eyes are so stark against the deathly pale skin, and his cheekbones are too prominent, more emaciated than he'd been that last time Tony'd seen him strapped to the operating table. Loki's hands are quivering as they bat Tony's away feebly. He's coming down from his high, crashing more like, as the adrenaline suddenly abandons him. Tony knows, has experienced it for himself a time too many. Loki's chest rises and falls too rapidly, and he's hyperventilating from the pain and exhaustion but he's still being a stubborn bastard, kitten-weak objections to Tony's inspection. 

"Hey, quit it! I'm trying to save your stupid ass so stop fighting me," Tony growls, frustrated and worried and he's _this_ close to losing _his_ shit. The longer he doesn't do something with his hands, the longer he sits there just _looking_ at the battered body, the quicker the blind panic will seize him and Tony cannot afford for that to happen. He tries to steady himself, to cease mirroring the way Loki's thin hands are trembling. Tony takes a deep breath and gently leaves the god leaning against the leg of his table. 

He sprints back with the overstuffed first aid box Pepper had put together from the day Tony'd moved into this mansion, enough supplies to treat a damn army, and a twelve pack of Red Bull. He isn't entirely sure that it's the best thing to chuck at a wilting, bleeding Asgardian but he'll take his chances. 

Tony slides to his knees, ignoring the way his body protests, and extends a carelessly popped open can. He cradles Loki's lolling head in his left palm and pats his cheek to get his attention. 

"Hey, hey, Bambi. Come on, drink this. Be a good boy for me and just drink it," Tony gushes, anxious to get the hell on with suturing up the wounds. 

"Wha- What is it?" Loki slurs. 

"It's an energy drink some geniuses came up with for us humans. Basically, it's a shitload of sugar dumped into one tiny can. Never get the ones made in Thailand though, the good stuff's the original stuff. Just drink as many as you can stomach. I need you to get your mojo up and running, babe," Tony says, beginning to sound a little crazy to his own ears. "Need to see if you can help patch yourself up at the same time. At least some of the nastier ones." 

It comes only as a mild surprise that Loki meekly consents, obediently lifting the can to his lips. Their eyes meet briefly, but Tony doesn't know what to make of the raw emotions Loki's hurling at him. A drop or so of the drink streaks over the cut on Loki's lips and he winces. Tony drops his gaze and starts yanking away the tattered outfit. 

"Talk to me. When you can, start talking to me. I want a goddamn explanation," Tony says, methodically cleansing each wound with alcohol, running a fire over the suture needle with a lighter. Loki barely makes a sound when the disinfectant hits the gaping laceration, he just grits his teeth and stoically downs can after can. 

"I... I found the island," Loki wheezes feebly. "I could... I could sense him just _there_ , right within my reach. But there was - " 

The words seem to seize in his throat, and it tears at Tony's mutilated heart to see the way Loki's face crumples. How his brows quirk and frown, jaw twitching in a futile attempt to control himself when all Tony wants to do is scream at him to _let go_. 

"There was a barrier," Loki finally spits out. "The Allfather... he still denied me. Even now. I could _feel_ Fenrir, he was just _there_ , I could _hear_ him, I could - " 

Tony looks resolutely at his hands, at the mindless weaving of the needle and thread in his fingers. He grinds his teeth when Loki's voice breaks. 

It's this moment that he'll remember later on. It's this moment, right here and now, that Tony will define as The Cue. He's been meandering by the precipice of something, a dodgy, worrying abyss he's inexorably drawn to. But until now, he's been waiting. Waiting for that one final _push_. 

And this was it. 

Tony makes the right mistake of lifting his eyes, just a fraction, and sees the can abandoned in one hand, the other clenched in a claw over his eyes. Loki's head is lowered to his chest, and the way his body slumps and shakes almost violently is telling enough. 

"Bambi," Tony starts, hating the uncertainty in his voice. It's a crippling reminder of that last night with Pepper, roles reversed, and it steals his breath. 

"I _hate_ him. I _HATE_ them _all_. _I just wanted back what is MINE_ ," Loki snarls viciously, but his voice is wet and it merely sounds helpless. "So I hunted them down." 

A hand grabs Tony's shirt tightly, drags him close enough for him to see the pained insanity lashing out through Loki's eyes. 

"I hunted down every last one of those spineless, worthless _filth_ ," he says savagely. Tony doesn't react at all, he finds that he cannot. There're just words and desperation, and Tony is caught up in this fuckstorm. Distantly, he notices weak, blue flares out of the corner of his eye, and it registers that Loki's subconsciously working his magic on the injuries. "I hauled each and every one of them to the throne of the Allfather. And I challenged them all to a duel, a _proper_ , _official_ duel and with all of Asgard as my witness, I slew them one by one, brought them down to their _knees,_ " Loki says viciously. "It was _glorious_. They _deserved_ to be gutted and flayed, stuck like a wild boar on a pike. The - the _gasps_ when they saw me for who I am, not the _lie_ Odin had been feeding them all." 

He pulls back as if scalded, eyes red-rimmed and suddenly so lost, tear tracks glistening in the dim light. The abrupt change is disorienting, and it's discomfiting to see Loki's face shatter from quivering rage to hopeless, aimless despair in a heartbeat. 

"Did - it didn't help did it," Tony croaks, as if he were the one who's just torn all those words out of himself. He starts closer, and then he's pulling Loki tightly to him, holding him flush against his chest. There's a silent moment where Tony hears Fury's words echo in his mind, the very real threat that Loki's instability could pose. 

But Loki's making a wrecked, keening sound of indescribable _frustration_ that tenses the muscles in Tony's shoulders and he all but gives an inward 'fuck off' to the Director. 

He tightens his hold on Loki and rubs his hand up and down the bruised back, whispering frantically all the while. There's panic in his chest, and it's got him rambling all kinds of nonsense. 

"Revenge is overrated, Bambi. _Christ_. Fuck. It fucking is and it sucks like that," Tony murmurs into matted hair. He doesn't really know what to do with his hands, so he just _goes_ with it, running them as gently as he can through sweat and blood clumped strands. "But that's _enough_ , man. It's over, it's enough. You have to stop, you _can_ stop." 

Tony lowers himself and presses his cheek to Loki's scrapped, tear stained one, listening to the quiet, pathetic, little gasps of air. "You're just giving them what they _want_ , don't you see? They _expect_ you to act like that, they _expect_ you to be cruel, merciless and every other fucking shit thing they'd wanna think of you. You were _wrong_ , Bambi. People can change, they can fucking change, they can makes choices, they can do whatever the fuck they _want_! But these fucking grudges, assholes like them don't know _how_ to forget. You may have changed, you could've changed and they wouldn't fucking _see_ it anyway." 

Tony runs his palms down Loki's cheeks, thumbs away the tears stubbornly escaping the eyes squeezed shut. "So I say 'fuck 'em', Bambi, fuck these assholes. You're so much more, you're so much more than what you've let them define you by. Okay? Okay? You may not think so, you may think it's a whole load of horseshit, but tough luck, because _I_ believe it, alright? I _believe_ in you, got it?" Tony says fiercely, hands still caressing Loki's grimy cheeks. He's been too quiet, but he's finally coming down, finally calming down and Tony's too damn relieved. 

"They don't accept you, they don't _want_ to accept you, that's their fucking loss. Screw 'em. You can find _other_ places that would. Like _here_ , you ever thought of that, huh? You could be accepted _here_. I mean, tone down the killing, ease up a little on the property damage cause it gives Fury a headache and he'll give _all_ of _us_ hell for it," Tony rambles, running his mouth off at the overwhelming relief now that he's gotten Loki to _breathe_. "You already know I accept you for the twisted cookie you are. And Cap - well, Cap could easily love you like the understuffed teddy bear you are if you'd just drop the whole tough-guy crap and just be _you_. You don't have to keep fighting to prove yourself. You won't have to anymore. You want knowledge? You want magic? We've got tech, right, and it's not too different really; you'd have the edge to implement what us mere mortals can't cause we can't do no hand-twirling mojo. And _Christ_ , you could go to _college_ if that's what you want, if it'll float your boat." 

He gets a strangled chuckle for the babbling but Tony grabs onto it and forges on. 

"Clint may be a real piece of work, but who cares about Purple Boy? Bruce, that green tellytubby, he's like my Eeyore when he's not green, and he told me himself he wouldn't _care_ as long as you don't do something stupid to the other dude inside him. And Natasha - Natasha's a firecracker in a tight, tight catsuit and we just won't go there but I think you two'd have fun conspiring shit and trading kill tips or something. And babe, don't even get me started on your _brother._ " 

Loki jerks in his hands at the mere mention of Thor and Tony thinks it's time that stopped because Thor is just... 

"Look, the blonde He-Man _loves_ you, okay? You know that, I know you know that inside, and he's practically _grovelling_ , Bambi. I'm not saying forgive all and shit, he's done some fucked up crap to you but you could maybe attempt a truce or something... people can realise their mistakes, Loki." 

Tony _finally_ finds himself looking into wet, silver-green eyes, beautiful and as stunning as he remembers. He finds them _really_ looking at him now, clarity restored. 

He doesn't realize what he's saying until he sees Loki stare at him incredulously. 

"Stay _here_ ," Tony whispers. "With me."

He swallows the sudden lump in his throat and repeats himself. It's liberating, actually, to come to the realization that he just doesn't _care_ anymore, not about how crazy abrupt this all is, nor about how Fury's got a bullet with his name on it. 

"Yeah," Tony breathes. "Stay here. With me. It'll be... great." 

Loki blinks, slowly, the action drawn out and it causes Tony's pulse to hammer against his chest. It's unintentional and probably far from appropriate, but it isn't something he can help. Not really. His eyes dart immediately to the pink tongue that peeks out to subconsciously run across chapped lips. Tony doesn't realise his entire body is tense, wound up tight in anticipation, not until cold fingertips lay feather-light touches on the arches of his cheekbones. 

Loki leans in ever so slowly, and presses his lips to Tony's. It's chaste but unmistakable. Definitive. Tony circles the thin wrists in his warm, calloused hands, curves his body into Loki's when the god sags against him, pressing his cold nose into the crook of Tony's neck. 

He isn't sure who starts it, whose moan had first echoed loud in the silence of the room, but as it is, Tony's wholly focused on the warm contradiction of Loki's tongue as he mouths along the sensitive bit of skin below his earlobe. 

"Loki," he hears himself gasp out, and it's just a little bit embarrassing. " _Ngh_. H-Hey. You were just bleeding all over the carpet, fool." 

His reply is for big (bigger than Tony's because as much as he tends to forget, Loki has at least a head on him), cold hands to fist the front of Tony's shirt and the way the fabric tears at a sharp jerk is both inappropriately hot and more than a little worrying. Tony jerks when Loki unexpectedly bites down at the juncture of his neck to inevitably leave a trail of bruises, which is as ridiculously lewd as the short, panting puffs of air searing against Tony's throat. Loki groans in pain as it jarrs one of the freshly scabbed over incisions on his waist. 

"Loki - " 

"No. No, don't. I want this," Loki says into Tony's ear, bowing his head. "I want this." 

It's probably going down in the books as one of the stupidest things Tony's ever thrown himself into but between the wordless plea in iridescent eyes and the heated kiss he finds himself yanked into... well, Tony's never quite learnt how to say 'no'. 

Loki's lips taste of blood as the cut is reopened, but neither of them cares. Thin, wicked lips are curled into a lazy smile, kiss-swollen and blood-smeared red when Tony pulls back. _God_ , this is going to be such a mess, such a fucking _hot_ mess. 

"Okay," Tony murmurs between quick kisses. "Okay. Bed. _Now_." 

He wobbles unsteadily to his feet and pulls Loki along, impressed with his ability to still be wary of the other's condition despite how addled his brain is. Tony shirks off his useless shirt, and shimmies out of his boxers as he straddles Loki's bony hips. 

The leather coat's strewn somewhere on the floor and thank the lord for the shredded tunic because it just leaves Loki in the world's most infuriating leather pants. Tony tears at them, or tries to, at any rate. Wordlessly, Loki stays his hands and with a flick of the wrist, the damn thing dematerialises. Tony shakes his head in disbelief. 

Loki's palm slides against Tony's and the ever-present chill to those long, elegant fingers startles him. It must have shown because Loki eyes him warily, a strange shyness Tony doesn't want on that pretty face. He touches their foreheads together and deliberately laces his fingers with Loki's, engulfing them with his own warmth. 

"Tell me," Tony says softly. "C'mon, Bambi. Tell me. Anything you want." 

Loki squirms beneath him, presses their bodies together in one undulating wave. "Take... Take me," he whispers, mouthing the words against the dip between Tony's collarbones. Loki's fingers tighten almost painfully around his own. 

Tony bites back a groan and gets with the damn program. 

He tries to be gentle, at the start. He gives Loki as thorough a preparation as he possibly can under the circumstances, hands fumbling with the fucking lube and spilling more than strictly necessary. When he reaches for the condom, because he's clean but he's not sure what the hell this whole thing is going to lead to in the end - if Loki's going to wake up tomorrow and flip out or what-the-fuck-ever - he's stopped by a firm grip on his forearm. He stares at Loki, uncertain. 

"I want to feel you," is all he says, so earnest, so eager. And goddammit, Tony needs to learn how to say 'no' because Tony's not _sure_ about the whole STD crap when it comes to Asgardians or aliens or whatever the hell the proper term for Loki is. 

He's careful to take it slow, even though it takes every ounce of his tattered restraint. It's a slow, agonizing burn and for better or worse, Loki's going to be the fucking death of him. 

That is, until Loki gives an impatient buck to their rhythm and a snarled, " _Move_ , Tony". And who's he to deny him? 

It turns savage and rough and Loki's bleeding on the sheets from a handful of shallow wounds they'd ignored, but it doesn't slow them down. If anything, the sparks of pain throw the pleasure into vivid relief and Loki's never said he didn't have a masochistic streak. 

Loki is under him, thin and pale and scarred and so painfully beautiful, gasping and moaning soft sounds that coils the thick want in Tony's chest. Their bodies move in sync, sweat slick and _perfect_. He lets his fingers ghost over prominent ribs, lets them trace every scar and every imperfection to the marble skin. Tony's not going to last, it's been too long; not with Loki tight around him, so, so unexpectedly warm. 

Loki clenches suddenly, and it punches the air out of Tony's lungs, forces him to steady himself with his hands twisted around the sheets beside Loki's head. It hadn't registered, not through the dense fog of lust, but it's glaring now. Loki's biting down hard on his lip and his eyes are scrunched up tight, his head tilted away. 

A dark, ugly fear churns in his gut. He wouldn't put it past Loki to not say a word even if he'd been hurting him. 

"Babe, hey. Hey, Bambi," Tony murmurs, easing off.  

Silver-green eyes snap open at the sudden loss and Loki scrabbles for Tony's arms. 

"Wha- What are you doing," he gasps wetly. 

"Am I hurting you," Tony says, the question sounding harsh in his ears. He cannot fight the irrational anger building inside - he wasn't supposed to be just like the _others_ , uncaring and _blind_. 

"No, no, you're not. _Please_ ," Loki begs, bucks pointedly under him, forcing Tony in deeper. He lets himself get tugged down for a kiss, all teeth and wanton desperation. 

"Loki," he breathes. "No, hey, look at me. Open your eyes, babe. C'mon." 

He knows he's barely holding out with every sharp thrust, every wet slap of his thighs against Loki. His arms are burning but it's nothing compared to the devastating pleasure coursing through him. Tony cradles Loki's weary face in his hands, brushes kisses against the closed eyelids. 

"Loki, look at me," he says again. "C'mon, sweetheart. I got you. I got you, I'm here. Right here. Let me _see_ you." 

Loki's trembling, his whole body is shaking under Tony and Loki whimpers and moans. 

"Open your eyes, Bambi," Tony coaxes gently, voice strained. _God_ , this is killing him. 

And then Loki does. His eyes are wide and wet, nothing hiding the emotions staring right at Tony, raw and so very vulnerable. He realises, understands how much he's being trusted with and suddenly, it's as if his skin's not big enough for him anymore. There's a thin line of blood trickling out of the corner of Loki's lips; he leans down to lick and kiss. 

 _Tony, Tony,_ Loki's chanting, as if his name is the only thing he knows anymore. _Please, Please, I can't - can't._  

Tony pulls back almost entirely, then, without warning or heed to the disappointed gasp, he pushes back in _hard_ and rough. 

Loki cries, breathless and gasping. 

"Tony," he stammers, toes curled and hands fisting the sheets too tightly. 

"I got you, babe," Tony tells him, not letting up one bit, pushing harder and deeper until he's lightheaded and _close_ , too damn _close_. "I got you. Let go, sweetheart. Just let it go." 

Loki arches off the bed with a ragged scream, raw and torn between pain and pleasure. His gorgeous eyes lock onto Tony's and everything's too fucking much, he's never seen anything so damn magnificent. Loki comes violently over them both, clenching tight with every surge, and Tony rides it out with him, shuddering as his vision whites out. 

"Tony, Tony," he hears when he finally comes back down from the overwhelming high. There's bone weary exhaustion but Loki's _smiling_ \- an honest to god _smile_. It's small and weak from exertion and the emotional rollercoaster but it's there. For Tony. 

He cannot help but answer it with a lopsided one of his own, and when Loki doesn't move away, not even when Tony draws him nearer, until he can wrap his body around him, he feels his smile grow stupidly giddy. 

"Le- Lemme get you cleaned - " 

"Sleep," Loki interrupts, drowsy and pliant. "I'll live." 

"But - " 

Tony falls back down onto the mattress, and returns to his place. He drags the blankets that'd been kicked away earlier over them and relaxes when Loki immediately burrows into his side. 

There are things he thinks he ought to say, questions that'd been rattling in his head since forever, curious questions about Loki's children and paranoid questions about the sanity of his decision, if Loki's serious about agreeing to Tony's impulsive proposal. He doesn't know what this'll really mean but he's too fucked out of his mind to care. 

For now, Tony just falls blissfully asleep to Loki's fingers carding through his tousled hair. 

And yeah, it's all disturbingly _perfect_.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh ngh... I would officially swear off writing smexy times if I didn't know doing such a thing would inevitably find some silly way of biting me in the butt eventually. D: I hope it wasn't too traumatic to read. I want to cringe, really. 
> 
> Ta!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE Meet the Parents gathering of his lifetime. And it was all his idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. Gawd. FINALLY. If you notice, yeah, there's still one more chapter. Yet again this story has managed to defy my expectations when it comes to the length of schmuck running through my head and I couldn't fit the epilogue into this chapter. And yeah, it is THE longest chapter I've ever written for anything. Geez. Thank you guys for sticking with me through this.
> 
> Happy Reading.

There's still an hour before sunrise.

It's dark beyond the tinted windows, it's dark within the marbled walls. The lights overhead have been dimmed for some time now, a decision Jarvis had taken the liberty of making after his creator had all but forgotten its existence. There'd been a flurry of activity, a waterfall of curses and drugged conversation Jarvis paid half a mind to, droning out the words that weren't meant for him.

The warm glow falls gently over the desk, glistens off the shiny surfaces of a watch -  the favourite watch - a cell phone and a cufflink. It's reflected in the screen of a half-opened notebook, left forgotten and haphazardly strewn. On the floor, by the foot of the table, is a pile of crushed, punctured cans, little drops of sweetened liquid long soaked into the blood smeared carpet. The stains aren't obvious, not in the light; even in the light. They're brown and dull and they blend into the chaotic mess of colours that have coagulated into the monstrosity of a carpet.

They have not slept, not really. Their muscles have relaxed, limp and sluggish, their skin cool and sticky from sweat long dried. It's been a few hours but they have yet to move. Laziness, in all honesty, though they might argue something more - in the quiet calm of the aftermath, their hearts beat loud and fast in the dark silence. They're entangled under the sheets, the longer body curled small and tucked into the corner carved for him in the other man. Perhaps neither wishes to break the fragile balance between them, or perhaps it is intoxicating to hear their hearts pulse in time with each other. Unintended and hypnotic.

"Thank you," he whispers, too uncertain.

"You're... a coconut," he answers, somewhat in awe. The hand stills in its mindless rhythm up and down a bony spine. "Hard on the outside, all soft and cushy on the inside. Who'd have thought - actually, no, of _course_ you're a coconut."

The man chews on his lower lip, blinking lazily up at the ceiling.

"I can _feel_ you pouting, babe." He doesn't say _I know I'm an asshole_ because it's instinctual for him to sprint in the opposite direction of _feelings_. He's not good with them; they're messy and too damn confusing. Tony doesn't look, but jostles the tense shoulders under his arm.

He jerks violently when a set of teeth nips his bicep. _Hard._

"Need everything be pain and melodramatic darkness?" Loki mutters, affronted. Tony catches everything else the god does not voice - he understands how fucking loaded the question is. With Loki, it's all about dizzying layers and ninja-subtext buried and hidden too well beneath acid and fire.

He ghosts his fingers over pale skin, reciting each vertebrae in his mind.

"Nope," he says, careful to sound flippant. "Everything can be whatever the hell it wants."

Loki hums into Tony's chest.

"Hey, where are those popsicle toes of yours?" Tony asks, apropos of nothing, disturbing the careful arrangement of the blanket and what pillows that remain as he squirms to sit up.

"Here," Loki says, completely befuddled. Tony's ankles are attacked by small blocks of ice and he handles the shock with a yelp.

" _Christ!_ Tuck them here, _geez_ ," he grumbles, shifting until he's got those bony, knobbly feet clamped between his calves and Loki plastered against his back to accommodate the non-negotiable positioning.

"Tony," Loki mumbles after a moment. "My body is never going to get any warmer."

Tony feels each word as a puff against his neck and it sends stupid sparks down his spine. Truthfully, he might have forgotten about that point, but it'd been a hopelessly mushy gesture and his pride's already in tatters - so he deals with it as manfully as he can.

There's a careless sweep of an elbow that catches Loki in the chest, and a muffled, "Don't care."

"Wha-"

"Tell me about your kids," Tony cuts in. "The other two."

There's a moment's pause, a moment too long, and Tony immediately wonders if he's managed to shuffle past that invisible line. If, maybe, there's another grim, horrible fate that's befallen the children in yet another show of the Allfather's wondrous parenting skills. But it's apparently just paranoia, because Loki presses his forehead between Tony's shoulder blades and melds himself to Tony even more. His body really is much too cold for any human, but it doesn't matter so much under the covers - Tony would rather the chance to grow an addiction to the press of Loki's body to his, solid and _real_ with all its imperfections, willing under fingers that would chart a map with the scars.

Tony sniffs, fidgets a little to peek over his shoulder.

"I mean, it's okay if you don't wanna - "

"They're twins," Loki sighs into his back. "I would not have known of their births had my brother not overhead the Allfather speaking to the same whoresons I hunted down. The children had been in Jötunheim all the while with their mother, Fenrir's mother, Angrboða."

"Oh, yeah, hey, been wanting to ask - what's the deal with the two of you? Just... I wouldn't mind a heads up, 's all.  Am I gonna have to bulk up the suit to fight over you or - "

"She is dead, Tony," Loki says quietly. "When they were sent to Jötunheim to retrieve the twins, they were ordered to slay her also. She had stood little chance against that many of Asgard's _finest_."

Tony blinks at the wall, suddenly wide awake.

"Shit. I'm sorry," he stutters, and debates if Loki would appreciate it if he were to turn around to face him.

"There was nothing between us, and it was a long time ago," the god says. Tony feels the soft brush of Loki's eyelashes as they flutter against his naked shoulder.

"The Allfather thought me ignorant still, but I was there when they brought the twins to the throne room and perhaps that is what spared us from being forever severed," Loki says wistfully. "But... I suppose where they are now begs little difference."

"The books are true?" Tony asks, caving in to his whimsy and worming his way around to bump their foreheads together. 

"Yes," Loki huffs with resigned amusement. "Hela faces eternal damnation in Nilfheim, never leaving, bound by her duty till the end of all existence. Jörmungandr, my father had banished and thrown into the waters of Midgard, back when your land was still a single piece. He... - the little one has perhaps the most freedom of his siblings. He tells me the most delightful stories of his time ashore, and of the entertaining tales your people weave upon laying eyes on him." 

Tony looks at him seriously. "So all those myths from sailors about sea serpents - that's actually your son?" 

Loki's lips curl into a lazy, smug smile. "He is quite fond of mischief, I suppose. It is terribly boring being stuck in the ocean all the time. I believe there's a particular legend in Chile about a mermaid the natives call _La Pincoya -_ " 

"You're shitting me," Tony stares in mild horror. Friggin' inheritable gender-swapping tendencies. 

"I _shit_ you not," Loki informs generously, the corners of his beautiful eyes crinkling. 

"Y'know, the academic world would have a field day if they could just _meet_ you. Seriously. Proving myths and confirming the theories of old, dead -- _Alfred Wegener_ would be doing the jig in his coffin with the solid evidence that his theory's right," Tony muses with a faint smirk. 

"That is _if_ they could meet me. _If_  I wanted to meet them," Loki points out dryly. "Which I do not." 

"Yeah?" Tony says, raising an eyebrow. "Why's that, Snambi?" 

"Wha - Because I _can_. And what in the nine realms is 'Snambi'?" 

"Well, you're being a total snob. So, 'snob' and 'Bambi' - 'Snambi'," Tony explains in his most patronizing voice. 

Loki frowns at him. "I had noticed you calling me... what was it - 'Bambi'? What is it? What does it mean?" 

Tony freezes. It doesn't help at all that Loki's looking at him with such sincere curiosity, wide eyed and expecting. _Gawddammit_. He can't possibly tell him that he's being associated with an adorable, bright-eyed Disney-enhanced baby _deer_ of all bloody things. Even if the baby deer grows into a badass stag with those antlers that remind Tony of Loki's helmet, which really was the whole reason why he'd even thought of the nickname in the first place. (Tony's mind leaps and trips and connects in ineffable ways. It's no secret.) 

"Erm... it's just an Earth... human thing. Don't think too hard on it. It just rolls off the tongue well; I like it," Tony gushes. 

Loki looks far from convinced. 

"Moving swiftly along - have you, er, ever asked your dad to just... release Fenrir from the island?" 

"I...," Loki pauses. "Not since he'd first been chained. The Allfather's word is final and I - " Loki purses his lips and presses himself into the pillow, scowling at the ceiling. "I never thought to see if something so simple would sway his mind. Not while the promise was owed still to those filth. Why do you ask?" 

But Tony's got his fingers tip-tapping against the arc reactor, doesn't respond and Loki calls his name, "Tony. _Tony_." 

"What, what," he starts, blinking around. 

Loki looks at him funny. "Where did you go? We were talking and then... _nothing_." 

"Sorry," Tony grunts, propping himself up on one arm. There's a rather worrying gleam to his crazy eyes. "Drifted - was thinking." _Scheming_. "And I might have come up with -- you trust me, right? Don't you?" 

"Your disjointed sentences are most grating, you realise?" Loki sulks, reaching up to press his fingers against the edges of the arc reactor, encasing it till blue light leaks between the gaps of his fingers. Tony wraps his hand around Loki's wrist and tugs, pinning it between his body and his free arm where it's warm. He hadn't counted on the backlash of freezing cold, and Tony bites back a curse at the poor planning. "What are you doing _now_? It's uncomfortably warm - " 

"Precisely," Tony winces. "Ransom! C'mon, c'mon, answer the question. I can take it." 

"Yes, _yes_ ," Loki grouses, though the corners of his mouth twitch rather energetically. "You have it, you overgrown _manchild_. Now, would you be so kind as to relinquish my hand?" 

"Well, of course I do," Tony beams, planting an absent kiss to Loki's captured inner wrist. "Who doesn't trust Tony? That was all formalities - " 

"I have it on good authority that Miss Potts wouldn't trust you with _grass_ , let alone a goldfish," Loki quips. "The _point_ , Tony. Get to your point, please." 

"I have a _plan_ ," Tony whispers conspiratorially, looming so close to Loki's face he's almost cross-eyed. 

"So _trust_ me."

 

\---

 

There were several stages that Tony had to get past for Mission Free FenFen and it really hadn't seemed so bad in his head. (Yeah, he had a _list_. Pepper nearly had a palpitation.) 

First: Breaking the news to the team that Loki was back in the mansion. To their credit, there hadn't been too bad a reaction. After his little impromptu speech during the battle, where Tony took off like a white knight in ostentatious armour, it came as little surprise to the rest that Loki would somehow find a way to rematerialize somewhere within the vicinity of Tony like the telenovela lovers they were. Steve seemed cautious, Bruce was carefully nonchalant, Natasha smirked and went on buffing her nails, Clint just sulked by the cuss-jar... and Thor transformed into an overenthusiastic Huffalump. 

Tony's ears were still ringing from the loud, " _Take me to him!_ " 

Second on the agenda: Breaking the news to _Fury_. 

Now _that_... had taken liquid courage by the barrel and the fortification of Tony's most lethal weapon in his arsenal - Pepper. 

"So." 

"Er. So, you probably know that Loki's in the mansion by now 'cause I know you've got ears in the dam- erm, walls, and you're somehow bribing _Jarvis_ ," Tony hisses pointedly at the ceiling. 

"Mm-hmm," Fury hums, arching one eyebrow. 

"The thing is... I know he's on SHIELD's Most Wanted list, and this is gonna sound crazy to you, but he wants in." 

Tony waits for the inevitable explosion, and when none is forthcoming, he darts a glance at Pepper and hurries on when she just smiles encouragingly. "I - He wants to join Thor and our bunch of merry men and spare everybody - I mean, _you_ , the fuss of damage and destruction and mayhem and more but he's got one condition." 

"He's got one condition?" Fury repeats calmly though Tony knows it's not calm _at all_. 

"Request?" Fury tilts his chin just so and now Tony's got two brows raised at him. "He wants to try and get his son released from the chains, the island too if possible - " 

"Spare me from the details, Stark. You want my _permission_ , is that right? Is the Great Tony Stark gonna _listen_ to me, anyway? Why the new approach, huh?" Fury says over Tony's voice. 

"Seriously?" Tony says, foraging for all the warmth and charm he was once brimming with, and fighting _not_ to wince at how high his voice sounded. He tries to ignore the hint of panic pawing at his chest. See, _this_ is why people are nice to other people, so that grudges don't rear their ugly heads to bite you in the ass, _dammit_ , Tony. "I just... New leaf? Maybe?" 

God. Could it have come out any worse? 

"Look, this stopped being amusing about a minute ago and now it's just pissing me off. So, I'll just go ahead, hmm? Truth is, Stark, if you can fucking _promise_ or _swear_ on your armour or whatever the hell else, that Loki will not lose his shit and go back on his word, then I couldn't give a fuck. He's a crazy, evil genius and he's got his creepy mojo and we've all seen what he can do - if he wants to channel it to _helping_ us instead, then bring out the champagne. But _you_ cannot promise me that he won't betray us. He's the fucking _Lie-Smith_ , Stark." 

"Yeah, well, I don't know if you've noticed but we're just a group of high-powered weapons, _Sir_ \- " 

"Yeah, smartass, I know that. But Loki has an _amazing_ track record that doesn't help his case at all," Fury grinds out blithely. 

"Why not a grace period or something. Think of him as an _intern_ ," Tony waggles his eyebrows hopefully. Fury just looks impassively back at him, stony and unimpressed. 

"You're fucking _lucky_ , Stark, that Miss Potts has got your sorry back. She's already negotiated on your behalf and I am gonna step aside on this. For now. Loki is Thor's brother and wonder boy's overprotective. As much as possible, I don't wanna start a war with a superhuman race, which means, do whatever the fuck you want with your little plan and see how it takes. But you make damned sure nothing gets blown up or goes disappearing and there's no inter-realm dispute or so help me, I will make _your_ sorry ass deal with the fucking council and _then_ I'll make you disappear. _Got it_?" 

"Crystal," Tony smiles sweetly.

 

\---

 

The request had come as a surprise to Thor. 

It was early yet in the morning, by the standards of all but the good captain (whom Thor once challenged to the unearthly routine of honing his battleform in the wee hours of the morning but ultimately ceded grudging defeat to), when he found Tony Stark nursing his mug of coffee in the kitchen. At his footsteps, Tony turned to wave at him. Steve offered a pleasant smile, sunny as always, before busying himself with grabbing a mug for Thor, his actions as subtle as a Bilgesnipe. 

"Morning, big guy," Tony says, oddly cheery when in the past he'd only have eyes for the over-caffeinated drink in his hands. 

"Good morning, my friend. What has you in so fine a mood?" Thor booms, accepting the cup from Steve with a nod of thanks. 

Tony shrugs, takes a sip of coffee, fidgets where he is on the counter stool - Thor may lack the perceptiveness of the Black Widow and the horrifying ability to make sense of the scribbles and numbers of Doctor Banner, but he is _not_ as dense as his brother would have them all believe. He does not like the sense of foreboding that comes with Tony Stark's restlessness. 

"Erm, well, Steve and I were thinking, discussing, and we were wondering - " 

The Captain turns away to cough what sounds a lot like _"It's all on him."_  

Tony shoots Steve a dirty look, " _We_ were wondering if there was a protocol to requesting... an audience... with the Allfather." 

Thor's mug freezes on its way to his lips. He thinks of the reasons Tony would have to want a meeting with his father, and then he recalls how he'd been the only Avenger to have voluntarily sought Loki, the only Avenger to have spent so much time with his brother and not possess a look that promised violence. He almost drops the cup. It had seemed _innocent_ and _thoughtful_ at the time - 

"YOU WOULD SEEK MY BROTHER'S HAND?" he cries, rising sharply to his feet. (Coffee still in his fist. Tony eyes it warily.) 

"Wait, _what?_ No! Crap on a cracker, Jeez, Fuck, NO!" Tony yelps, gesticulating wildly. "It's about Fenrir! Please don't waste the coffee - it won't do much good on these sweats. Drink it, it's better for your system." 

"YOU WOULD DAR - _what_? Fenrisúlfr? What business would you have with my nephew?" Thor demands, confusion mellowing the self-righteous anger in defending his brother's virtue. 

Tony rubs at the thin, metal cuff around his hand, and holds Thor's gaze steadily. "I think I might have an idea to help him get out of those chains. Loki's... pretty much on board already, but we need your help." 

Thor narrows his eyes at Tony. "What is your plan? Would the Director turn his ire on me yet again?" 

"Erm," Tony chuckles, rubbing nervously at the nape of his neck. "I think Pepper's got it all covered. At least, it's what I understand from the freakish meeting of ours - " 

"Then I would trust the Lady Potts," Thor says tentatively. "Her prowess are no less than Sif's and I would entrust my life to her." 

"Right, yeah. Great, so," Tony says into the dredges of his drink. "You in?" 

"Yes," Thor gulps his coffee. "I am in." 

Tony claps him once on the shoulder and stills, looking thoughtfully at the blonde. Steve, ever observant, _recognises_ that look and he has to do something. Fast.

"Tony," Steve warns, poking his friend pointedly at the temple. "Tony, _no_. Behave. Let it go."

Tony narrows his eyes, bites back his lips, as if physically restraining himself - but it's too much to hope for and Steve hangs his head when Tony blurts out, "About that _emphatic_ reaction when you thought I was gonna marry your brother..."

 

\---

 

It's the end of the week and the plan's been set in motion. It's _The_ Meet the Parents to _end_ all awkward Meet the Parents; this event would take the _worst_ that anyone might proclaim and smother it face first in the ground and Tony fucking _orchestrated_ the whole thing for himself. 

By the time he's out of the shower, dressed in his smartest ensemble of a black Armani suit, white dress shirt and a silver tie if he could just knot the damn thing, he's more than in need of a tequila shot. All these _nerves_. 

"Hey, Loki? You wouldn't happen to know how to tie these fucking things, would you?" 

When there's only silence to greet him, Tony lifts his eyes from the tie draped around his neck and blinks owlishly at the empty room. 

"Loki dematerialized from your quarters after you'd gone for a shower, Sir," Jarvis informs dutifully overhead. 

"Yeah, no _shit_. Thanks for the damn update, Jarvis." 

"At your service, Sir." Tony doesn't recall sarcasm being a part of the programming; he's always been meaning to look into that. 

"How much time till the party?" he asks, stepping before a mirror and muddling his way through a Windsor knot. 

"Half an hour, Sir. Also, it seems that the rest of the Avengers are slowly making their way to the conference room as well." 

"What?" Tony splutters. Damn Steve and his chronic motherhen disease. If it goes badly, he's never going to hear the end of it. " _Why_?" 

"I would _assume_ for moral support, Sir," Jarvis is fucking merciless. 

Tony glares at his reflection, the stupid lopsided tie, and the time shown on his watch. _Shit_. 

"Okay, okay, do you know where the hell Loki is?" He has twenty minutes to comb the entire fucking mansion; next time the HQ gets blown up, they're living in a one-room hole in the wall. His hand twitches for his flask. 

"His magic signature is not showing anywhere, Sir. Though, if I may, you might try the roof," Jarvis chimes monotonously. 

"Roof. The roof, right, okay." 

Tony growls in frustration and yanks at the tie, only to succeed in tightening it into a stranglehold about his neck. He fumbles for a pair of scissors he doesn't remember stashing in the drawer and snips at the fabric like a man possessed. 

"Perhaps you might consider the velcro variety in the future, Sir? It says online that they now come in a variety of sporting colours and materials." 

"Oh, _fuck_ you, Jarvis."

 

\---

 

The accuracy of the prediction is, for all intents and purposes, highly disturbing. 

Tony radios Steve with a frantic SOS, asking if he's seen Loki at all in the last hour and when he gets a negative, he mutters a quick goodbye and hangs up on Steve just as his maternal instincts get sent into overdrive. He makes a beeline for the elevator (Yes, elevator. He's old. Piss off.) and does a fucking river dance the entire way up. Bursting through the door, he finds Loki seated precariously along the edge of the building. 

"Bambi? What. The. _Hell_. Please, do my heart a favour and get the _hell_ away from the edge. I will feed your sugar fetish for all eternity if you just... _Christ_ \- just, c'mere. Please." 

Loki leans back, his eyes wide and innocent, as if he genuinely doesn't see how terrifyingly suicidal this looks from Tony's point of view. 

"You found me," he says, sounding pleased and shocked enough that Tony feels a little insulted. 

"Well, _duh_ ," Tony snipes back. He doesn't think it's necessary to mention Jarvis in the hunt - he deserves a win. 

Loki rises gracefully to his feet and dusts off the bits of gravel from his usual leathers and saunters over. 

"We have _ten_ minutes. Do you - Are you backing out, babe?" Tony asks, making a conscious effort to sound calm and sincere, and not as fucking hysterical as he is inside. 

Loki chews on his lower lip. "I don't want to hear him deny me once again," he says quietly. "I was thinking that perhaps it is an entirely pointless endeavour, Tony." 

Tony wants to gape. It's a fact. He does. He also wants to grab Loki by the shoulders and shake some sense into him because for all that he is a raving ~~lunatic~~ genius, he's so incredibly _foolish_. Tony takes a moment to scrunch up his face and curse his sensibilities to the depths of hell, oblivious to the look it garners. Because he's about to resort to an all new level of low and he's quite certain about his impending need for his armour, the metal band around his wrists a poor comfort for the staggeringly stupid act he's about to commit. 

"So, what, you're afraid of hearing a 'no' again and that's enough to give up on your kid? You're not even going to _try_?" 

He braces himself for impact. 

Loki shoves him into the wall of the roof access, palm pressing hard against the arc reactor until the metal begins to bite into Tony's skin. 

"Well, I can see domestic abuse featuring in the foreseeable future of this relationship," Tony wheezes, rolling gamely with the punches before it turns into armed conflict. "Bambi, come on. Breathe. I just need you to _see_. It'll be better in the end, if you know that you did what you could. No? No, you don't see?" 

This close, Tony can pick out the silver and green swirling in Loki's irises, exactly as he'd seen in the Queen's. Loki bares his teeth in a snarl and backs off abruptly, jerking away. 

"Stark - " 

"Hey! We're back to this again?" Tony squawks. 

"No, I'm calling you 'Stark' because you're being an unmitigated arse, now, don't interrupt," Loki sulks. "It is of no question that I would do anything to see my son freed from those chains. It is just - I have _hoped_ , Stark. I have clung onto the notion of _hope_ before and only ever fallen to fate's vagary. And I cannot _bear_ , not again, to _believe_ that this would work - " 

"You said you trusted me, right?" Tony croaks, bridging the gap between them. Rubbing at the throbbing bruise that's surely forming around the arc reactor, Tony reaches for Loki with his free hand. 

"That alone is not a guarantee - " 

"It is, okay? It _is_ this time," Tony says firmly, ignoring the voice in his head that screams of the white lie he's churning from nothing. "Just trust me and see this through. We're already _here_ , Loki. C'mon. Talk to Odin, I'll be right there, hell, we're _all_ there - " 

"All?" Loki stares. 

"Don't ask me. It's Cap's need for fluff and support." 

"I - " 

Tony waits patiently, fingers curled loosely around Loki's wrist, and he waits for the final decision.  

"Alright," Loki breathes. "Alright, I believe we've kept them waiting long enough."

 

\---

 

It occurs a little late to Tony that nobody's ever seen the Allfather, nobody aside from the brothers, and suffice to say, he's pretty sure no one had expected Santa Claus. 

(Clint snorts loudly into the initial silence and twitches violently when Natasha's stiletto heel steps down on his foot.) 

Tony wasn't entirely certain about the arrangement, having left Thor to settle the details with his parents, but by some unspoken agreement, the Avengers remained standing, huddled close to the door while Odin and Frigga took their seats at the furthest edge of the round table. Loki stood before them, his face an expressionless mask. 

"Loki," Odin finally began, his voice coarse like gravel. 

"Allfather. Mother." 

"Your brother brought word of your request." Tony frowns, the tension that had bled over from Loki instantly prickling to indignation. Kidnapped and tortured and a whole new package of mental scars and _that_ was all Odin had to say. 

"My utmost gratitude for acquiescing, _Father_ ," Loki says perfunctorily, his head bowed low. "And for travelling the distance to Midgard. I apologise for the trouble." 

"You seek to end your exile?" 

Loki startles, looking up in a jerk. Tony doesn't need to see to know how Loki's eyes widen, the expressiveness and vulnerability when he's caught through a crack in his walls. 

"No, Father. It is not my place, but your decision and judgment entire," he says softly. (Tony knows he has no intention of even attempting to reverse it.) 

"Then why have you called this meeting?" 

"I would ask that my son be liberated from the chains that bind him and his freedom restored," Loki says firmly, meeting his father's gaze head on. 

Odin's expression turns ugly in a second, the harsh lines of his face accentuated in his ire. He stands sharply, rising to his full height, his presence suddenly suffocating and oppressive in the tiny space. Tony catches Natasha curling her hand around the grip of her plated Desert Eagle; beside him, Thor tenses, muscles coiled and wary. He doesn't want to risk a glance at the Doc. 

"And you think it _your_ place to dare make such a demand?" Odin growls. The lights begin to flicker, electricity crackling overhead to send down a shower of sparks. 

"I think it my right to save my son, yes, Father," Loki continues mildly and it sickens Tony to think that this levelled reaction is the product of a lifetime of experience. "The oath is no longer of worth, his promise owed no longer to any who live. I've made certain of that." 

Odin flinches at the careless remark - a sore point, then, to have had the Court bear witness to the dreaded Jötunn Prince putting down Asgard's elite fighters in fair combat. 

"He lost to the challenge and by the laws of any such contract, Fenrisúlfr would remain chained for eternity, regardless of the existence of those with whom the game was played," Odin proclaims. 

"That was not the agreed, nor does there exist a formal contract, Father," Loki grinds out. "Eternity was not of the wager. In the event that your _minions_ were foolish enough not to err on the side of caution, where no duration was specifically given, then the chains need remain only for as long as they live. My son has upheld his end of the wager," he hisses. 

"The _wolf_ is nothing but a threat and menace to _my_ people!" 

"You tore a child away from his father, away from _any_ guidance, and tricked him into imprisonment and you would that he know a world beyond desolation and the darkness of rage? He was never allowed to _learn!_ " 

"There was time yet before his own misjudgement and he'd borne a promise of destruction and trickery. The Councilmen saw naught but trouble from him - " 

"He was but a _child_!" Loki cries, desperation breaking his voice. 

"I will not have unnecessary pain and danger befall my realm, Loki. There is nothing more to be said." 

Tony hates that he is unable to see Loki's face, that Loki is unable to see just how much Tony would like to test run Mark Eight on the Allfather. He has no choice but to just _stand_ there, completely helpless as he watches Loki's shoulders fall, the fight punched right out of him at the simple fucking sentence. Goddammit, he's tired of dealing with paternalistic bullshit - first from _his_ dad up until his death, and now _this_ bullshit. 

"I beg your pardon, Father, but if you would allow it - you'd told me at the time that you feared Loki too young to raise Fenrisúlfr. Has that not changed?" 

Tony cannot quite believe his ears, and apparently he's not the only one. Loki whirls around, eyes wet and utterly stunned to see his brother speak out against Odin. From what he knows, this is a fucking _milestone_. 

"Has Loki not wrought damage and problems to Midgard time and time again, my son? He may be older but his ways have not changed. To have Fenrisúlfr entrusted to him would be madness," Odin says, as if Loki were invisible. 

"He _has_ changed, Father. Since joining us, he has helped us - has Baldr and the Enchantress not been returned to Asgard and justice served for their misdeeds?" 

In all technicality, Loki isn't _exactly_ a part of the Avengers considering the fact that Tony hadn't even mentioned Loki's intention of defecting from the Dark Side. But nobody bothers to correct Thor. 

Tony meets Steve's wide, baby blues. He rolls his own eyes pointedly towards the blonde brickhouse and receives incredulous brows as his reply.

 _Are you sure about this, Tony?_  

He pushes his dull green shades further along his nosebridge with a thumb. 

 _Yes, yes, yes._

Steve swallows thickly, and darts a glance at Natasha. She doesn't look at either of them, staring unwaveringly ahead, but she uncrosses her arms and places a hand loosely on her hip. 

 _You look like fishes. I'll just follow your lead, Captain. Don't make me regret it, Stark._

__Bruce looks a little green and it takes no prompting at all for the Doc to blink furiously.

 _Anything. Whatever. Just make the tension **stop**. If Cap's fine with it, I'm fine with it. Just -_

When Tony finally turns to Clint, he isn't surprised by the death glare in the least. Being a part of a team, Tony's had to realise, meant that when it came to major, _major_ decisions, Steve had an almost compulsive need to have everybody's damn approval. Even if it was grudging, reluctant or completely forced, he just wanted everyone on the same page. 

And Tony isn't above bribery. With his fingers, he mimes shooting a bow - Clint perks up, still suspicious, sure, but his interest is piqued like a grumpy puppy. As much as it pains him, because the man has the weirdest ideas when it comes to the kind of modifications that should be done to arrows, Tony offers complete compliance to whatever crazyass whimsy Clint might entertain. 

Clint narrows his eyes at Tony and gives a longsuffering huff, like he's about to do the universe an enormous favour. 

 _Dumb sonuvabitch. It's your funeral._

Tony doles out a heart with his hands, lingers at Steve and mouths _'BFFs. You and me'_ , to which the blonde just nods and slaps on his best Commando face. 

"Sir, Thor's not wrong. Yes, Loki's done some pretty nasty things in the past, but we all make mistakes," Steve points out, all goodwill and old-world charm. Y _es, we all blow up entire cities at a time_. "And Sir, you didn't see Fenrir when he was on Earth. With all due respect, he's nothing like what your people think he is." 

"Er, yeah. Totally second that," Tony weaves in, throwing on all the suavity and finesse in the art of smooth-talking that he can rally together. "I had to babysit the pup and he's just a big ball of fur with a fetish for apples. Nothing I can fault there." 

He steps a little closer to Loki and offers a wink when the pale face stares at him with unbridled incredulity. 

It is in this momentary pause that the miracle of _miracles_ occurs. Pushing brusquely past the glass door in a whirl of his leather trench coat, Fury stalks forward until he's standing beside Loki. He glowers at Tony for the simple reason that he _can_ , Tony's certain of it, and then his attention is on the royalty. 

He inclines his head in a short bow (Tony bites back a theatrical gasp) and says, "I'm sorry for the tardiness but I'm Director Fury, the one in charge of this group of yuppies. Allfather. My lady." 

"Director," Odin acknowledges with mild irritation. Frigga simply nods her head daintily, amusement crinkling her eyes. 

"Now, I didn't manage to catch what they've been saying to you, but essentially, the proposition between our two realms when it comes to your son goes like this: Loki's been on our blacklist for a long, long time and him wanting to hop over to join his brother comes only as a good thing to me and my superiors. He's gifted, powerful and downright devious and if he wants to turn all that to helping us, then we're quite open to it. He's been on a trial of sorts and so far, we're pretty damn happy with everything." 

(If Fury weren't Fury, Tony's pretty sure a lesser man would have been a smudge on the wall by now for talking like that to _Odin_ of all people.) 

"Now, the thing is, before signing on for a lifetime membership with the Avengers, Loki had a condition he wanted met - he'd like it if his son were to join him here. Now, I know that there's some history here and I respect that, but we'd rather there continue to be peace between Midgard and your realm, you understand. Surely." 

Odin says nothing for a long moment, only frowning at the Director. 

"You are saying that Fenrir ought be released here on Midgard to ensure my son partakes in these little adventures with your warriors?" 

Fury visibly bristles at the condescension. 

"Sir, I am saying that we'd really rather not have to see your son as the enemy. And I am saying that we oughta think about maximizing resources. Fenrir's got the same powers as his daddy, more or less, and it's been completely untapped and just _rotting_ there because of some stupid bet the kid made when he was a _kid_. I am _saying_ , maybe let him serve a purpose, leave the caretaking to _us_ and we'll be relieving your people of a potential rogue. Because believe me, if he's anything like his dad, he's gonna figure a way out of that island for good someday. And he ain't gonna be cute and cuddly." 

"Watch the manner in which you sp - " 

"Release him." 

Odin turns abruptly to the Queen, who has until now kept her silence. 

"Release him," she repeats, matching her husband's stare with practiced ease. Odin may loom over her where she sits, but there's something in her gaze that makes Tony feel like the balance of power has shifted. 

"You would agree to their reasoning - " 

"I would have you remember what you'd thought when you first cradled the infant in that temple all those ages ago," Frigga retorts evenly. "You'd told me, then - that no child ought grow up without those who would watch over them, not when they are yet accustomed to the cruelty of the world, vulnerable and helpless to its caprice. I've always believed your every action was born of a higher purpose, my love, and I'd question not your decision; but _this_ I can no longer ignore." 

Odin looks long and hard at his Queen and the harsh lines on his face begins to soften. The rigid tension in his body ebbs away and in its wake, the Allfather is haggard and weary, the burden of history writ in his eyes. 

"As you would, then," he breathes. 

The Allfather turns to face Fury, and looks at each Avenger in passing. Tony doesn't back down when Odin pauses at him. One stern eye narrows, assessing with an unreadable expression. Perhaps it's telling how Tony's body leans slightly towards Loki and he's standing a little too close, or that he's angled himself such that a single step would put Loki behind him. He sees an understanding flare almost imperceptibly but Tony doesn't give a _fuck_. 

"I will have the runes undone and the chains removed. Fenrisúlfr will now be of Midgard's concern. Have a care that the nine realms be at peace - I hope for all our sakes that he will not disappoint the belief you hold of him." 

Odin raises his staff and plants it firmly to the ground, tendrils of blue lightning snaking intangibly across the floor. The room is suddenly overpowered by a beam of light that reminds Tony of the X-Files. The Bifrost opens and the king and queen are slowly enveloped in a white glow. 

As their bodies begin to shimmer and fade, Odin turns to Loki once more. 

"Prove us wrong, my son. And perhaps in time, you might introduce me to my grandchild."

 

\---

 

It takes only a day for the city to cash in on its ass-luck. There's barely a week to Christmas and Tony's so far behind on his gift shopping that every disturbance leaves him ever more frantic. There's a string of attacks from Doctor Doom and his fucking robots and a sprinkling of half-hearted attempts by the Mandarin as if they're trying to pack evil deeds in in time for the holidays. It's half-assed and like swatting flies, but try a _million_ flies that leaves a long list of destroyed office floors, showers of debris and an incredible bill that leaves Fury so red Tony's sure he was going to burst a vessel that one time. 

Loki's integration into the team was stilted, to say the least. 

It was difficult for the rest to adjust to the fact that the target they'd once had to hunt down and throttle to exhaustion was now an ally - especially for the assassins. Natasha and Clint were twitchy and apprehensive; when trust had to be earned and only half ever given, the killer in them loathe to the idea of vulnerability, it was almost impossible for either of them to feel at ease around Loki. With the Trickster on board, it was like asking them to abandon stealth and strip away their weapons; he was a wildcard and their instincts could not square with that. 

There was a well-established team dynamics to the Avengers and there hadn't been time to figure out where Loki fit into it all before the _New_ -Avengers had to be deployed. In the numerous missions they'd done together, they had formed a basis for any battlefield strategy - Natasha would always be paired with Clint, Tony and the Hulk soaring solo with the former providing back up, and Steve would be teamed with Thor when either needed support. They were a well-greased machine and Natasha isn't the only one to have nearly ~~killed~~ hurt Loki with friendly fire when he'd materialised beside her to help. The look of hurt that flashed across his face was raw enough to send a sharp spike of guilt through Black Widow the first few times it'd happened. But Loki took to masking his emotions with his actions, taking his frustrations out on targets and losing control on the damage he dealt to the enemies. 

(It wasn't helping either that Odin was taking an awful long time fulfilling his promise.) 

Loki spent the entire duration of fights threading shadows and striking when least expected, streaks of green light suddenly flashing through the air, blowing up in faces through the dark of night. There were petty, disbelieving remarks from his unofficial villain club too, taunting and insulting him for defecting; for the most part, Loki handled it with a smirk and a spell that rendered whoever mute, but his patience was wearing thin. After a particularly vicious remark, Loki had turned Jötunn blue and frozen the poor sucker solid where he stood. Along with the adjacent building and several others behind it.

 

\---

 

Christmas Eve finally dawned on New York City and _it_ couldn't have come at a better time. 

"I don't fucking believe this shit. It's fucking _blasphemous_.  _Normal_ people would be busy preparing turkey and stuffing and wrapping fucking presents and fuck - but _nooooo_ , we have to be fucking stuck fighting these evil shitheads. It's _Christmas._ Take a fucking break," Clint swore into the intercom, nocking another arrow onto his bow. 

"Big word there, buddy. Sure you didn't rupture something in that head of yours?" Tony mutters distractedly, attention fixed on Loki fighting off a legion of Skrulls on the ground. 

"Damn you, Stark. I hope you get socks for Christmas." 

"Can never have too many," Tony retorts, dodging a blow from some weird, oversized flying reptile thing the Skrulls had brought along with them. "You, on the other hand, will probably get coal." 

"Guys," Steve sighs into the channel. "Please. It's almost Christmas. Just focus and we can head back. Miss Po - Pepper says she ordered that log cake we all liked from last year. The one with mousse and that nice, crunchy layer - " 

"Feuillantine, Cap." 

" _Whatever_ , Tony. For that, I'm taking back your present and just so you know, it was amazing." 

Tony splutters at the visual of Steve knocking back a row of aliens, his shield like a bowling ball. "What is _up_ with everyone today?" 

"You're being a _pighead_ , that's what, Tony." 

"Boys, shut up and focus on that flying monster, he's on your six," Natasha's voice floats through the comm calmly. 

Tony whips his head around and there it is, gleaming teeth sharp and freaky in the afternoon sun. He throws on a sudden burst of speed and narrowly escapes. 

"Thor, my blonde grizzly bear, _a little help?_ Where are you?" 

"Can you not go faster? I have a clear shot, Tony," Loki's voice is velvet in Tony's ears and yeah, he's still getting accustomed to hearing it on the battlefield like this. 

"Nope, nope, not unless I wanna smash into a fucking _building_! Shit, wait, what about the Skrulls?" 

"My brother's handling them fine," Loki says mildly. 

In the corner of the HUD, Tony sees a blue glow streak past him. There's an unhappy screech that follows but the damn bird-pterodactyl _thing_ is only singed. Tony pushes the thrust capacity even higher and swerves upwards in a sharp arc, deploying a volley of missiles to buy him some time to get out of the clutter of skyscrapers. 

It doesn't quite work - but everything's moot by this point. 

Because at that instant, there's a crackling in the sky, a marked change in the clouds as the blue darkens abruptly. The clouds cluster together, grey and heavy before the rumbling that echoes in the air erupts in a thunderous clap as the heavens break apart. There's a flash of blinding light that paints Tony's vision white, and seeing stars with every blink. 

"What the _fuck?_ " Clint's hoarse cry sounds in his ears. 

"Tony!" 

He hears what sounds like a roar, and then a wet, ripping sound. Tony's vision clears and he's laughing hysterically before he's even aware of it. The monster's screeches are fucking shrill and rings painfully in his ears but Tony's too high to even care, not when there's the familiar bulk of midnight black fur clinging doggedly onto its back, mauling at its wings. 

" _Bambi_! Holy shit, Bambi, are you _seeing_ this?" Tony shouts into the intercomm, grinning like a mad man. 

In the HUD, Tony watches the Hulk beat at his chest, roaring at the sky in what he assumes is a gesture of great camaraderie. The battle on the ground's cleared and Steve runs to the roof of a mutilated Ford and stares up at the new arrival, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

"Look at the little critter go," Clint marvels, darkly amused as Tony grimaces at the splatter of blood that spurts from the bite wounds. 

Loki's like a statue where he stands, hands curled into fists by his side, and the wetness of those green eyes tightens that _something_ that's been growing inside Tony's chest for while now. He grins fiercely, even though there's nobody to see it, and it matches the look of determination that slowly spreads across Loki's face. 

"FENRIR!" Loki shouts, a long forgotten fire burning in his eyes. He stretches out his arm and it begins to glow blue. 

Fenrir tears his attention away from the scaly, flying monstrosity and comes away with a chunk of its flesh in his mouth. Looking down at the ground, Fenrir howls at his father and it is loud and clear in the confines of the city. 

Tony takes his cue and scoots off in an arc, circling closer to the ground to clear the way. 

Loki twists his body with all the grace of a dancer and whips back, lightning fast and no less elegant as a spike of crackling energy lashes out from the spire of his arm. 

The creature tries to flap away, away from the line of fire, but Fenrir suppresses its pathetic flailing, leaping off just in time as the bolt of energy strikes the body. The wings pull back on themselves as the magic Loki fired scorches the thing from the inside out. Its screams are a different sound entire as it plummets through the air, charred and missing parts of its wing when it smashes into a skyscraper and then the ground in a plume of dust and debris. Through the clouds of dirt that begins to settle, the Avengers spot the silhouette of a giant wolf. 

It struggles weakly for a good minute or so, before there's a familiar, definitive gurgle that cuts off the feeble screeching. Fenrir finally abandons the monster and trots away, tail wagging. He ambles towards the cross junction where the Avengers are gathered, waiting. 

Standing beside Loki, Iron Man's helmet popped open, Tony gives him a nudge to the small of his back. It's awkward, sure, Tony's not going to lie so close to Christmas, but with everything that's happened, a storybook perfect reunion is hardly difficult to stomach. The Avengers look on, a mixture of unexpected sympathy and caution as Loki squares his shoulders and shuffles forward. As he passes his brother, Thor places a comforting hand upon his shoulder and nods, smiling wide. 

He barely gets a few paces ahead of Steve before Fenrir lunges full throttle at him. Loki's knocked back and finds himself with an armful of mangy fur. Sinking to his knees, he wraps his arms tight around Fenrir's scruff. His eyes squeeze shut and he whispers nonsense into the soft fur, babbling and gasping. All through the trembling and the shuddering, Fenrir flops to the ground and curls himself closer. He lets his breathing soothe his father, heavy, cool _whuffs_ of air against the small body. 

When Fenrir pulls away, after a long moment, Loki tries not to let his disappointment show. Except, he hadn't expected his son to have pulled away for the sheer purpose of giving him a sloppy, cold snuffle with a terribly wet nose. Loki laughs, a little too manic, a little too much like he's not used to making such a sound, but it's lilting and beautiful and Loki _laughs_. 

Out of the corner of Tony's eye, there's a movement that grabs his attention. 

The Hulk fidgets restlessly and Tony's a little surprised that the Doc hadn't changed back yet. Maybe it was because the other guy's instincts were still wired and wary with yet another new presence but Tony begins to retract that idea when he sees him cock his head to one side. Fenrir jerks his snout past his father and sniffs the air, eyes trained on the green body. As far as they know, he's never met Bruce in his other form. 

"He means no harm," Loki says gently, but Tony's not certain whom he's speaking to. 

Hulk eyes the giant wolf sceptically, apprehensive of a creature even larger than himself while Fenrir continues to stare. Then, in that abrupt, puppyish manner of his, the dust tickles his nose and Fenrir sneezes in a loud whuffling snort. This, apparently, is all it takes to be deemed approachable. 

Carefully, slowly, the Hulk inches closer, until his hand is a scant foot away and it's a mere stretch of the neck for Fenrir to press his cold nose into the green palm. 

Natasha watches the scene with a particularly impassive mask and Tony pounces on the obvious overcompensation. 

"I'm sure if you asked nice, he'd let you snuggle up too," Tony says innocently, giving her his most winsome smile. Naturally, it's the wrong thing to say. The redhead's eyes narrow dangerously and her mask slips away to something ugly. In the blink of an eye, her pistol is out of its holster and a shot rings in the air. 

"Oh, _come on_! I just patched up the suit!" Tony whines, pouting at the bullet hole at the outermost corner of a shoulder.

"You had it coming," Steve mutters, not really looking, still fixed on the live soap opera unfolding before them. 

"I've never seen him so... _happy_ ," Thor murmurs faintly. 

"Yeah. Not surprised," Tony smiles tightly at the conflicted expression on Thor's face. Tony takes a deep breath and looks at Loki instead, and feels the tension begin to seep away. 

"So, we're gonna have to come up with new code names." 

Steve turns to him and beams, which is really rather incongruous to what he says next. 

"You're not having _any_ say in them." 

"What? You can't decide that, Cap - " 

"Sure, I can," Steve says, dismissive. "Does he _know_ what 'Bambi' is? I don't think he does." 

Tony's eyes widen and he looks rather like a guppy. "You _wouldn't_." 

Steve Rogers, the sweet boy-next-door and friend of all things living, _smirks_ at his best friend. 

" _Wouldn't I_?" 

And damn it all if Tony doesn't feel proud.

Up ahead, the sun sits low in the cleared blue sky, warm orange hues falling on their faces. Their shadows are pulled long and dark against the road, meshing together into one unseparable block. Their rag-tag family of superheroes has grown even larger; someone's hit the restart button and it's going to take a lot of work to find their places amongst each other all over again. It's going to mean an unholy number of accidents, getting into each other's faces, violent, overblown squabbles and days of silent fuming; it's going to mean days, weeks of Cap wondering why he accepted leadership, Thor engaging in godly rows and beer fests with his sullen brother, Tony and Clint setting up a betting pool on those brotherly rows, and Bruce overseeing the strict application of the cuss-jar while Natasha settles for a death glare at everybody. 

(Up ahead, there's a 'pop' and Fenrir's a tiny pup yipping and chasing after a topless Bruce, as manly giggles fill the air.)

They're a bunch of superheroes (and one ex-supervillain) thrown together into one big messy family, and life's always going to be one fucking rollercoaster ride -

But _nobody_  would have it any other way. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there we have it. I hope it was entertaining enough a read and as always, thanks so much dropping by and lasting the entire length of this thingamabob. The epilogue's not really crucial at all and just an excuse for me to throw in little snippets of Loki's brood and CHRISTMAS! (even though it's MONTHS away for us D:)
> 
> (And yes, some of you might squawk at the balatant alteration of Norse mythology but for some reason, for the purpose of this story, I wanted Jorg and Hela to be twins. Maybe it's a personal fascination, who knows. But yes, the product of my imagination. Cheers.)


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH. MY. GOODNESS. It feels _extremely_ weird to be posting this FINAL chapter, given the fact that this is probably the very first long, long fic I've ever completed. Well, the bulk of ramblings I have to type can be found at the end of the chapter if anyone is interested. Other than that, I would just like to give my thanks once more to EVERYBODY who left a kudos or a comment and more importantly, for sticking with me throughout. Thank you so much and I hope you've enjoyed reading this. I'll answer all the unanswered comments in just a bit  <3
> 
> Happy reading!

1.0

 

"It's _Christmas_ and you're still working." 

Pepper frowns at the list displayed on the tablet, electric blue fingernail reflecting the bright glow of the screen. 

"I wouldn't really call this planning _work_ , 'tasha." 

"What would you call it, then?" 

"A pleasant means to an end. Can you _imagine_ how the decorating would go if I left it to them? Tony would be finding some way to string up _vodka_ shots on the tree. Remember last year's _tequila_ shots?" The two women share a look - one long look that extends far beyond mere commiseration. 

"I don't think I've ever seen the Hulk look so confused to be let loose," Natasha says, thoughtful. 

Pepper hums in agreement, then puffs noisily through her nose as she slouches against the couch and Natasha's elegantly sprawled shins. It's two in the morning and Pepper's jet-lagging and powered on espressos. But compared to the crazy amount of things that had magically popped up _just_ before she'd been ready to declare leave from Stark Industries, organizing Superhero-Decorating-Duties is a walk in the park. 

Pepper slumps even more when manicured fingers card through her hair. "Okay," she declares. "I've got it. Thor lops a tree and brings it in. Loki is in charge of tree decoration. Tony strings up lights on the roof. Bruce can handle the interior ornaments, and because I do not trust _anyone_ else within an inch of their lives, _Steve_ is in charge of grocery shopping. Clint's fine with the kitchen, right?" 

"He's already gotten out the apron we got him for his birthday," Natasha smirks. 

"Can I leave you to make sure this all happens? I'm gonna crash and then I'll have to drive out to collect the Yule logs." 

Pepper twists around, craning her neck to see the redhead offer a half-assed salute. She grins, tired, and gets to her bare feet slowly. She lets her fingers tangle with Natasha's before dropping an absent kiss in the mess of sweet-smelling curls (Pep smiles wider - Natasha was finally using the crazy expensive shower set Tony had bought them the previous year, no doubt having had more dubious and questionable thoughts in mind.) At the door, she pauses. 

"Oh. You saw that book on the table earlier, right? When I was in the shower," Pepper says. "Do I _want_ to know why you were looking for it? Or is this like the Thor-and-cockroach incident?" 

"I did what I'd intended with it, Peppy, thanks. It's a present. And no, _nothing_ like the taking-out-a-section-of-the-building incident," Natasha answers innocently, purring as she stretches on the couch. 

Pepper juts out one hip, all sass and dangerous brow. It's a patented pose of hers - everyone's seen her sic it on Tony _millions_ of times. 

"Really?" 

Natasha bats her lashes coquettishly, then pauses with feigned consideration. 

"Well, maybe you'll just wanna act like you knew nothing." 

"Just to be safe, huh?" Pepper sighs, resigned, pushing past the door. 

Natasha grins. "Just to be safe, да," she hollers after the retreating back.

 

2.0

 

To the gods, Christmas is a rather _normal_ concept. The big feasts of the eve and day of, the giving of gifts and good cheer - it is a day like any other on Asgard to Thor. If anything, he rather thinks mortals too stingy that such merriment and festivities be restricted to the meagre handful of days within a single turn of the planet. 

But it is not his realm, and his dear Jane has taught him the manners of her world - that is, he makes no comment. 

Jane is almost comfortable with this second family of his, though the presence of his brother seated beside Tony Stark strains her. It would seem that Doctor Selvig, in particular, would yet forgive Loki. Dinner, this mortal year, is an uncommonly strained affair... Up until the customary shawarma steams its way to the table and the Lady _Potts_ has worried her lip puffy, and breaks out a tangy liquor she dispenses into tiny, tiny glasses, in any case. 

After that, all bets are off.

 

\---

 

To Loki, _Christmas_ proceeds like any other rowdy meal at the table of his brother - loud, and uncomfortable. On Asgard, his presence had been tolerated, rarely _wanted_ , his reservation throttling the joyous mood of the feasts. When Thor would break into awkward jest, proceeding to drink the guests under the table, the quiet and unease would hurtle into a jarring cacophony of noise and barbaric cheers. Loki would always take his leave. 

It is a little different this time. 

He sits and offers strained smiles, makes polite conversation with those who would bother to speak with him over the insanity that is slowly unfolding in harmony with the consumption of alcohol. Miss Potts is surprisingly amiable, complimenting him on the deep green waistcoat and charcoal black suit and it leads to a rather pleasant discussion on mortal and Asgardian fashion. With the Black Widow, who leans over Miss Potts' seat, arm slung loose about slender shoulders, Loki discusses the different daggers he has laid hands upon in his youth, forged from the alien metals native to Asgard. Tony doesn't so much engage him in conversation as he presses one thigh faintly against Loki's the whole night, a constant reassurance that prevents the god from caving into the burning desire to bolt. 

It helps. 

Loki hasn't been oblivious to the harsh glare Doctor Selvig sends his way, he isn't ignorant of the stares and the raw fear he sees lurking in Jane Foster's eyes, as if at any moment, he would spring from the table and string them all like puppets once more. He has no doubt about how the tale must have been woven for her ears by the old scientist. Regret... isn't something he truly feels when looking back on the Chitauri debacle, but he accepts the cold shoulder and the sullen treatment because in spite of everything, he _needs_ the acceptance of the others because he _likes_ the security of acceptance. So, Loki bears the discomfort and tries not to let his mind return him to the table of Odin. 

But another reason that stays the urge for flight, is the warm presence of his son, curled up on his lap, head resting upon the table. Fenrir had absolutely _refused_ to attend the dinner in his true form, shirking from the suit presented to him like it were a bag of fleas. He'd morphed into a wolf, his biggest and most menacing, snarling and growling at Pepper. But new as he is, Fenrir was unaware of how terrifyingly stubborn the Lady Potts could be when flustered and agitated from the hour long jam in her crusade to acquire the _goddamn_ log cakes. She'd stalked towards his massive bulk, undaunted even by the rather showy display of sharp teeth. When Fenrir caught no scent of fear, and recognised no inclination of retreat, his tail had dropped, his ears pulled back and with another pop, he was a puppy. Pepper spent the next thirty minutes chasing him around Tony's bedroom and then the entire mansion once he'd phased through the walls. So Fenrir got to stay as he was. 

He'd entered the dining room as a full grown wolf, much to the startled gasps and disbelieving expressions of the newcomers (He'd picked up their scents all the way from the driveway, sniffing and growling low, much to Loki's amusement.). According to the seating plan, he would have had a spot beside his father - but when the glares turned away from him and the emotions ran to disapproval and fear of his _father_ , Fenrir had bared his teeth, popped into a smaller size, and sat vigil upon his father's lap instead. 

Loki is glad for the heavy lump of fur taking up more space than his lap can offer, and takes to stroking Fenrir's downy back, slipping him quite an amount of whatever it is Pepper heaps onto his plate upon Clint's instruction. ("I spent _all day_ behind the stove and ovens and the motherfugging - shut up, Stark, I don't swear on Christmas and you won't make me - chopping board so I am _not_ going to see your skinny ass waste away when there's plenty of good food right here.") 

He's in the process of wiggling a finger over Fenrir's head, coaxing him away from his own share of the chocolate mousse because father doesn't share desserts, thank you very much, when there's a sudden commotion over at his brother's end of the table. 

"No, seriously, I'm way, way too full right now, buddy - " 

"You would concede _defeat_ , then, oh mighty Captain? Were it not by your declaration that you were the _champion_ of the hamburger battle - " 

" _Eating contest_." 

"-from whence you hailed? Were you lying, Captain?" 

Loki winces, pitying Rogers - though not too much. It is undoubtedly amusing to observe when someone else other than himself plays victim to the ridiculous challenges issued by an inebriated God of Thunder. Loki leans comfortably against the back of his chair and watches, taking small nibbles of the mousse. 

"Oh for crying out loud," Steve mutters into his plate. 

"Prove it to me, good sir!" 

"S-Sweetie, remember the lessons? Remember how we don't do _crazy_ stuff like this?" 

Thor has the decency to look over his shoulder at the small form of Jane, minutely consternated. 

"Dear Lord in heaven, watch over me," Loki hears the Captain murmur feverishly before the blonde turns to face his brother. "Alright, bring on the chocolate mousse, big guy." 

Thor _beams_. 

Steve whimpers. 

Tony cackles like a hyena. 

"It's a vicious, self-abusive cycle. Happens every time. Don't worry," Natasha whispers to Loki, petting Pepper's slumped shoulders as the other woman buries her face in her palms. 

"Oh, believe me, Miss Romanova. I am _far_ from worried." 

Loki helps himself to a second ladle-full, and smiles.

 

3.0

 

It's some time after the stroke of midnight when Loki notices the sudden loss of warmth over his feet. Through the darkness, his sluggish mind acknowledges the glaring absence of a small ball of fur that ought to be curled near the foot of the bed. 

Meandering about the mansion, he finds Fenrir sprawled by the fireplace in the common room, a small pile of wrapping paper shredded and strewn beside his head. There's a particularly colourful book laid open on the floor where Fenrir lies on his side, lazy and sleepy as he _whuffs_ puffs of air at the pages to get them to turn before flapping one lazy paw at the book to slap down a page. 

Curious, he pads closer to kneel beside his son. Loki runs a gentle hand over Fenrir's belly in greeting before looking at the picture book. He pulls it closer to himself and starts from the beginning, absorbing the images and processing the wordless tale of a young animal - a baby _deer_ , by the looks of it - and its coming of age. Loki settles himself against his son and reads, weaving words into the story for Fenrir. 

It isn't until he closes the book that he pauses. For a long, _long_ time. 

Fenrir head-butts his father, confused as to why the cover has him so riveted. 

Loki brings the book closer to himself and glares. Were it not his son's present, he would waste no time in flinging it into the fire. 

As it is, he places the picture book back down with a calm so forced, Fenrir pulls his ears back and inches away from his gift. 

"It's a good story, little one," Loki says, distracted. "Excuse your father while he finishes the Christmas present for your _other_ father."

 

\---

 

For as long as he can remember, Christmases have always been judged by the intensity of his hangover come the morning after. There'd been a particularly memorable one maybe one, two decades ago, which involved waking up in a harem, Tony squinty-eyed and fogged out of his mind by a most impressive migraine, yet giggly enough to stumble about the maze of bodies in varying states of dress to hunt down his unsalvageable clothes. At this age, however, Tony hates himself less when he manages to slowly crack open one eye at a time and not flinch from the sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains, the slightest sound _echoing_ in his head. 

Christmas, this year, seems to treat him well. 

Finally. 

Tony finds himself capable of reasonably coherent processing powers, drifting on a hangover that is mercifully mild for the amount of alcohol Pepper had surprisingly allowed him to consume - and he is _not_ alone in bed. 

In fact, there's a warm lump pressed close to him through the duvet and Tony has to smile at the new discovery - Loki's a blanket hogger. Go figure. 

"Hey," he drawls, trying for sleepy-sexy and just sounding muffled instead. He turns his head when there's no answer, not even a grumble. He stretches out a hand and expects to encounter smooth, cool skin over sculpted muscle and the faint thrum of energy that seems to course through the god's body. 

Instead, his fingers _sink_ into _fur_. Tony freezes, eyes snapping open sharply. He lets his hand trail down further - fur, fur, fur, and more fur. 

Tony turns his head and finds himself staring at the groggy, _purring_ mug of Loki's wolf-child. He yelps and flails and jerks himself off the bed. (He doesn't see the disappointment and confusion in Fenrir's puppy eyes.) 

"Jarvis?" Tony squawks, clambering to his feet, flustered hands on his boxer-clad hips. From the soft comfort of the bed, Fenrir leers at him, puffs of breath fluttering the covers. 

"Loki said to tell you your present awaits, Sir. In the workshop." 

" _What?_ I - where is he?" Tony says, fumbling for his glaringly red robe. 

"Haven't the faintest idea, Sir. Merry Christmas. Happy Boxing Day." 

There's really no appropriate response to that, so Tony just stands there for a moment, staring at nothing while his brain attempts to fuse the links together. Fenrir snorts into the duvet, fabric tickling his nose, and regards Tony with droopy eyes. 

"Do you know anything? Your douche-dad tell you what he wants me to do?" Tony tries, gesturing weakly at the air. 

Fenrir yips, sharp and loud and the sound rings in Tony's ears. 

He cringes.

 

\---

 

It's uncommonly dark on the way down, given the offensive amount of sunlight that's been beaming in through the windows on the ground floor. The lights in the mansion are sound-activated, though just to be sure, Tony makes a right ruckus stomping his way down the stairs. But the lights still refuse to come on. 

"Jarvis? Can't see a damn thing here. Check the programming, hmm?" 

"Right away, Sir." 

Singular bulbs pop to life with each step, but nothing more. It's enough to curb the immediate fear of tripping but Tony still cannot see beyond the next few feet. 

"Funny," Tony says loudly, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Har-Har, Jarvis." 

He's tempted to sulk when the A.I. completely ignores him, but he _needs_ to know what he got for Christmas - Tony wobbles on. 

At the bottom of the staircase, Tony taps in the code and the glass door slides open, and yet again only a handful of the overhead lights are switched on. There's nothing out of place or suspicious about the workshop, nothing to incite that unsettling lump in his chest as Tony puts down one foot after the other. 

He breathes out heavily and frowns when he comes to the centre of the room. 

"Fuck this," he grouses. "Jarvis, this is an order, switch on _every_ single bulb in this damn place. NOW." 

The room is suddenly flooded with a sharp, white flash as Jarvis finally chooses to obey the order and Tony has to shield his eyes, the abrupt glare sending a dull throb through his skull. Damn hangover. Through the gaps of his fingers, Tony squints, twirling on his heel until a streak of light bounces sharply off something very _metallic_. 

Tony pauses, lowering his hand. And he's fairly certain he's gaping. 

Tony's had his fair share of emotional rollercoasters - leaping from recognition to _ohmygawdthatisaBOMBrunrunrun_ back in the desert, countless instances in battle when he'd had just a _fraction_ of a second to clear the panicked fog in his mind and figure out a solution - but nothing prepares him for this. This heart-stopping, fervent clamour for disbelief because glimmering right back at him is his collection of Iron Man suits - re-painted in _silver_ and _green_. 

And where the arc reactor ought to glow from, an insignia now replaces it: the silhouette of Bambi sporting a _fucking cheshire grin_. 

Tony screams. 

"Oh... Oh, Oh. My. God. OHMYGOD! WHAT THE FU - THAT - JARVIS!" 

He slumps against his workbench, clutching at his heart. Tony isn't even aware that he's hyperventilating, not until there's a stampede of footsteps down the staircase, all the Avengers assembled in his workshop, and Pepper is petting his hair. 

"We heard the scream! What's wrong, Tony," Steve says, by his side in an instant. 

Tony turns his head weakly, whimpering. 

" _That_ ," Clint says somewhere to the right, giving a low whistle. 

Steve frowns, but follows the direction that Clint stabs a finger in. He has to bite the insides of his cheek. 

"Oh dear." 

"Scheduled video playback," Jarvis' voice suddenly chimes overhead, suspiciously mechanic. 

A blue-lined screen materialises out of nowhere, expanding before them all. The transparent interface blinks to life in a translucent sheen of grey static, fuzzy for a few seconds until the video comes to focus on the back of a chair. 

"Surely you've noticed your _gift_ by now, and I do hope you like it," Loki's voice fills the workshop, crisp and cloyingly sweet. 

The chair swivels around slowly, a glaring imitation of a film Clint had demanded to see on Movie Night a few days ago. 

"My thanks to the person who gave my son that _delightful_ picture book. It was most enlightening." 

Pepper's left eye twitches, and if Tony hadn't been so out of sorts, it would have been a tell he would never have missed. Beside her, the corners of Natasha's lips are oddly energetic. With great stealth, Pepper levels a sharp jab at the redhead's side. 

"Do refrain from calling me that insufferable nickname again, _darling_. It was truly unconscionable of you to have taken advantage of my ignorance," Loki tuts, narrowing his eyes at Tony in exaggerated disapproval. 

"Have a _splendid_ Boxing Day, _Anthony_."

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngh. That's that, then. (Oh. CREDIT GOES TO CFUGITT for being an inspiration with her drawing - a reference to which was made in this fic wrt Thor destroying the tower in his attempt to slay a cockroach :3 )
> 
> Firstly, if anyone's interested on updates or what-have-you on the other stories, I've got a tumblr naow, the link to which can be found in my profile :) 
> 
> Secondly, there may be fics dealing with Loki's brood but it'll have to depend on the muse and TIME seeing as college looms nearer :O
> 
> Thirdly, as mentioned, here comes the super long Author Note explaining the title of this story:
> 
> To be completely honest, the title had been chosen impulsively and for the sheer necessity of a title at the time. Often when writing, I don't usually have a title in mind. So when it came to publishing the first chapter, it occurred to me that ohbuggeringcrappyfkjdsaa I DON'T HAVE A TITLE! But I'd been doing some research for the basis of the story and had come across 'Lokasenna' inevitably and it'd felt right. It'd felt right because the fundamental concept of the story had, in some way, revolved around the tale. Yes, I know the poem centred on Loki being a complete nutter, hurling insults left, right and centre and that's all very good. But I'd been focused on the result of him doing so - how by the end of it, he was being tied up and acid was being dripped into his eyes and etc. I wanted to mirror that in what Baldr would in time re-enact. As to the allusion to Ragnarok, Lokasenna admittedly has nothing to do with it except for the fact that Loki was said to remain bound until Ragnarok. In truth, the title was me grabbing and holding on tight to even the tiniest of links and implications of the poem and its relevance to my story's content. So, there you have it. Nothing deep, nothing mind-shattering.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S: As a disclaimer, nope, none of the characters belong to me. Cheers!


End file.
